


A Matter of Trust

by lwbones123



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Angst, Dream-Centric, Gen, Hurt, Pandora's Vault, SBI family dynamics, Strained family relationships, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), because they are brothers!!!!, dream going a bit crazy, everyone got trauma, maybe comfort???, nothing good ever happens at a festival, oh wait maybe they all need hugs, the christmas festival thing, tommy and tubbo need hugs, why another festival??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:01:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28212078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lwbones123/pseuds/lwbones123
Summary: Tommy has escaped exile and Dream is not happy. A retelling of the events from Tommy's escape up until the finale, with a lot of creative liberties taken.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Luke | Punz, Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Ghostbur & Technoblade, Ghostbur & TommyInnit, Ranboo & Tubbo, Technoblade & Philza, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade
Comments: 140
Kudos: 428
Collections: MCYT





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Trying something new by writing from Dream's POV. I find him really hard to write, but I think his character is cool to analyze so I gave it a try. This is all based on those interactions from Punz's stream a few days ago. I want to update with another chapter but I was too tired to write it tonight so I'll probably do that within the next few days. Hope y'all enjoy! Comments are loved and appreciated!
> 
> Follow my tumblr if you would like, I'll post updates and stuff about this work and others!: lwbones

He knows something is wrong the moment he sees the wooden pillar, high enough to pierce the thickening clouds hanging low in the sky. It slowly appears, block by block, from miles away, as increasingly aggressive waves lap up against the side of his boat, the turbulent waters pushing him forward. 

Dread settles like a weight in his stomach.

When he finally arrives on shore, pulling the boat onto the sand, Dream finds the campsite just as he left it, craters left unfilled, buildings left in ruins. The pillar towers above him and he cranes his neck, peering up at the great height. No one could have survived that fall. 

He marches across the beach, feet sinking slightly in the sand. Illogical, burning anger swells within his chest with each step.

A bird flies by, the sole creature that seems to be left on the destitute island, wings flapping desperately, as if its flock had left without warning. 

In a single, fluid motion Dream has pulled his bow from its position on his back and shot at the ruffled bird, the arrow piercing it directly in the heart. It drops to the ground at his feet. Its black, shining eyes are left wide open, its frozen stare accusing. 

He kicks out at the small body, matted feathers now covered in sand. He huffs a breath, rolls his shoulders, and continues on.

When he reaches the base of the tower there are no items littered across the ground, but he knows that means nothing. He hasn’t been back to check on Tommy for a few days now, as he had promised, and the items could have despawned a long time ago. Still, he checks, and finds nothing.

He clenches his fists. If what he thinks happened, happened, if Tommy had indeed jumped to his death, pushed to the edge by his isolation, if the rest of the server found out, there was going to be trouble. Trouble, more specifically, for Dream. Trouble he did not need right now.

“What did you do Tommy?” he asks the sea salted air, turning away from the pillar. 

Could Tommy have killed himself? Had Dream really pushed him that far? It was hard to believe. It was hard to see Tommy as anything but the hard headed, irrational, loud mouthed kid they all knew. He had known Tommy’s will, his stubbornness, had slowly been chipped away at in the past few weeks, had been proud of the progress he was making with Tommy, but it was still hard to imagine him so far gone that he would jump to his own death.

He likes an obedient Tommy, a quiet Tommy, a Tommy he can shape into whatever he wants. He does not like a dead Tommy.

With panic now coursing its way through his veins he hurries down the path towards the Christmas tree, left untouched in his punishment from a few days ago, towards the spot where “Tnret” had once stood. 

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He’s looking for anything. 

There is nothing. Nothing to suggest Tommy did jump, but nothing to suggest he didn’t. Just knee high grass, blowing in the harshening wind and an unnatural hole torn into the earth.

That anger again, irrational and childish, he knows, rises within him, burning a path through his limbs. He picks up a displaced rock lying nearby in the grass, tosses it with a yell across the field. 

It hits the ground, bounces once, and lies still.

His breathing is becoming heavier. His chest heaves.

Tommy can’t be dead. That’s not how this was supposed to go. Tommy can’t be dead.

He shakes his head, internally scolds himself. He is letting the anger control him. Blind him. He needs to think logically, needs to push aside the panic that has wormed itself inside his brain.

He looks up, across the plains, towards the oak forest. If he were Tommy, if he were himself, and he was trying to escape, that’s where he would go first, is it not?

It begins to rain as he walks towards the forest. The water droplets ping on his glowing netherite armor, slide cleanly off the white mask clasped tightly against his face. His hair plasters to his forehead. His dripping, gloved fingers twitch around the hilt of his sword.

As he approaches the tree line he notices that the forest has become thinner. He glances back at the pillar. Was that the only thing Tommy used the wood for?

He walks through the grove of trees, not quite a forest anymore, their branches twisted and mangled, scratching against his armor, his mask. 

One branch catches on his arm. With a swing of his axe, glowing purple in the rain, the deadened branch falls to the ground. 

On the other side of the grove is another beach, smaller and rockier than the main one. He carefully maneuvers down the slippery boulders, down to the patch of sand on the edge of the water. He looks out at the tumultuous sea, hazardous to cross in the worsening weather, and sees another island, farther out. 

He looks back at the beach, something brown catching his eye. In the rain, which has gradually increased into a heavy downpour, it is hard to tell what it is, pressed against the boulders. 

He crosses the wet sand, heart pounding. Nestled between the rocks, now right in front of him, is a crafting table. A few spare logs are still inside. Dream uses them to craft another boat, and with nothing but burning anger fueling him, he pushes out across the water, waves crashing down around him, soaking every exposed part of his body. 

The distance between the islands is short, luckily, and the frustration he feels at being tossed around, physically fighting against the roaring ocean, drives him across yet another beach. 

This island is small, there are a few trees, nothing else. In the rain, it is hard to see anything, any evidence of Tommy’s presence. He marches through the thickening mud, which sucks at his netherite boots, until he physically stumbles on something, tumbling to the ground. 

With a growl he crawls to his feet again, the mud on his armor and mask already washed clean in the rain, and turns to the item that tripped him.

And there it is. There they are. A chest, a furnace, and a crafting table, all laid out in a row. His stomach drops at the sight.

He doesn’t know what to feel. Relief, that Tommy is alive? Anger that he has broken the rules, has left his exile? Disappointment that he had not learned? Fear of what Tommy might do, already with a head start?

He stares at the items, shoulders raised practically to his ears, right hand tightly gripping the hilt of his sword.

A single drop of water drips beneath his mask, trickles through his eyebrow, into his eye.

It is the final straw.

He unsheathes the sword in a blur of purple, turning around and wildly swinging at the trunk of a nearby tree, hacking at the bark with rage untamed. It fills him, that rage, gives him direction in the face of terrible uncertainty. 

Swing after swing he cuts into the innocent tree, until with a final swing the tree moans, and falls, almost comically slow, into the mud.

He stands there, in the rain, sword held out, rain dripping from its tip like crimson blood. 

With a breath, he sheathes the sword once again and returns to the beach, where he pushes his boat off of the sand and sets off for the Dream SMP.

He arrives hours later, still damp, the clouds thinning and disappearing completely as he makes his way down the Prime Path in the quiet dusk. 

He feels calmer now. The strange mixture of emotions he felt at first discovering Tommy is alive has dissolved, narrowed into a dangerous determination. 

He will make this all right again. He will find Tommy and make sure he never, ever, disobeys him again.

No one is around right now. His footsteps echo on the dry wood, the only sound besides them the distant trees, their leaves rustling in the slight breeze. 

He knows Punz has arrived when he hears another pair of echoing footsteps, louder and heavier than his own. 

He turns, greeting the mercenary with a nod. Punz is as somber as ever, decked out in netherite armor, always prepared for a surprise threat. He returns the nod, flexing his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

“You asked for me?” he says, quickening his pace to walk alongside Dream, who towers over the smaller man. Still, Dream keeps his guard up. Though he may physically look stronger than Punz, he knows the mercenary is more powerful and dangerous than most on the server. 

“Yes, I did,” Dream responds. 

“You’re wet,” the mercenary says.

“I am.”

“Why?”

Dream shrugs.

“It was raining. You heard about the prison Sam and I are making?”

Punz nods. 

“I have. Haven’t seen it yet, though.”

“Would you like to?”

The mercenary looks up at him, studying the mask, as if to see past the painted expression, into the face of the man beneath it. He finally nods again, shrugging his shoulders.

“Sure,” he says.

They walk on in silence. It is not a bad silence, not heavy or oppressive. Dream finds himself relaxing, if just a bit, his muscles sore from being tensed for so long. 

It is strange, to walk along in companionable silence. He is used to George and Sapnap’s constant bickering, their loud laughter. 

The thought of them, his old friends, sours his mood again. Just another reason to fix this whole Tommy situation, reassert control, prove he knows best. He feels the server slipping through his fingers, feels himself losing everything, like grains of sand, sifted through his hands.

He needs to increase his grip, needs to grab at anything he can.

The prison soon rises above them, a deep black that seems to suck the remaining light from the sky. Punz sucks in a breath at the site of the massive building and Dream can’t help but feel proud at the reaction. 

“Impressive, right?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s fucking impressive,” Punz says, shaking his head. 

“It’s not done,” Dream says as they walk down yet another beach, moon reflected in the moat water. “It’ll take about another week. But when this thing is completed…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, allows Punz to make up the rest. 

Total control. That’s what they’ll have. Total power.

“Punz?” Dream asks, turning towards the man.

“Yes?”

“You’re on my side, right?”

The expression of amazement on Punz’s face melts into one of total seriousness.

“Yes,” he replies, one word, short and to the point.

Dream exhales, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. It is all he needs from Punz, that one word. He believes him completely.

“Good,” Dream says, turning to look out on the prison again. “Because I don’t think anyone else is. They don’t- they don’t understand. They don’t get what I’m trying to do,” he says, the words moving faster and faster, practically spewing from his mouth. “I mean, from the beginning, all I’ve tried to do is keep the peace. I’m just trying to keep everyone together. But they keep, they keep  _ ruining  _ it. We’re meant to be like one, big family, this server. That’s what I wanted. Not all this fighting, not them tearing us apart at every opportunity. You understand, don’t you?”

He feels like he has to say it, like he has to explain. Even if Punz already knows, he just has to speak it into the universe. He is not the bad guy, though at times he feels the doubt creep in, nights when he can’t sleep, when the moon seems too bright, casting a spotlight, illuminating his sins. He is not the bad guy. 

Punz nods.

“Of course I do.”

The prison is all he has now. With Tommy gone, hiding who knows where, it is the only way to reassert dominance, to keep people in their place until he finds the kid. 

“I’m going to do something, something that people aren’t going to like,” he says, then laughs, bitter and short. “They’re going to hate me more than they do now.”

“Why?”

“Tommy left his exile. He’s gone. I don’t know where.”

“I thought he was being well behaved.”

“He was. But he’s gone now, and I need to- I need to do something that people are going to hate. I might have to leave for a bit, hideout somewhere. They might come for me, like they did Technoblade.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Where did this loyalty come from? Where was this loyalty in his closest friends? 

“I need you to hate me,” Dream responds.

“Hate you?”

Dream nods. 

“They’ll come for you too, if they think you’re with me. They’ll take you down first, and then me. You’ve got to pretend to hate me.”

Punz mulls that one over, his brow furrowing slightly.

“You’ll be a spy for me,” Dream continues. 

The night is still. There is no one else to see the exchange. 

“Can I trust you, Punz?”

Punz nods, netherite shimmering in the dark. 

“Yes.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream continues looking for Tommy, this time at Techno's house. All of this is based off of stuff happening in streams, with a sprinkling of what I think should happen in there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellllooooo!!!! ok when I first posted this I had no idea where I wanted to take this but I have had a good think and as the updated tags show, a lot of more stuff than I originally thought was gonna happen is gonna happen. I have no idea how many chapters this will take me, and to be honest I'll probably make some stuff up as I go along, but I'm really excited by the direction we are headed in. 
> 
> little heads up: I don't really know how to do the trigger warning thing, but Dream is a dick and has a little freakout in the ending section that might be triggering towards people handling abuse. it's not that bad, and Tommy isn't really in this chapter so he isn't hurt, but I just thought I would warn y'all.
> 
> anyways enjoy!!! I will update very soon because like I said I'm very excited about this story. 
> 
> my tumblr: lwbones

In the grey light of early morning, Dream steps out of the Nether Portal, head spinning and gut twisting as he is spit out from the fiery biome into a much colder one. His ears buzz at the sudden transition between oppressive heat, screeching ghasts, bubbling lava, and the silence that hangs after a fresh snow. 

Compact snow crunches beneath his netherite boots as he takes a few steps from the portal, reorienting himself. He is surrounded by snowy hills, but by now he knows which lead to the place he is looking for. 

He sets off, his gait confident. The old, familiar anger burns steadfastly in the pit of his stomach, fueling him onwards, buzzing with energy despite not having slept for more than 24 hours. 

Tommy is the only thing he can think about. Tommy is his only objective.

There is a thin line between bravery and foolhardiness. Confronting Technoblade is an action that toes that line, and as the only person on the server Dream is not sure he could come out of a fight with, he feels himself dancing along that line. 

But after a full day of searching, of following dead trails, he is fairly sure he knows exactly where Tommy is hiding. If he is right, he will tear down everything and everyone that Technoblade loves. No one will ever forget what happens when you disobey Dream.

The log house appears on the horizon, smoke pouring out of the chimney. Golden light streams from the windows, despite the early hour. For a moment, he could swear he sees the broad silhouette of the Blade pressed against the window, watching him, but in another moment he is gone.

He arrives at the porch of the house, limbs stiff from the cold, not only hoping to get inside and search the place, but to find shelter from the brutal winter’s morning. If it were anybody else he would have knocked the door down, done what he wanted and left without a single word exchanged. He’s decided to tread a bit lighter than he normally would.

He raps his gloved knuckles against the oak door twice, stepping back. Up close, the house is cozier than one would expect a retired anarchist war criminal to live in. It’s certainly better looking than most of the structures built on the Dream SMP lands. 

The door swings open, a gush of warm air following, and there is the Blade, looking as he always does, netherite shining over an ironically royal-style outfit, his scarred face as expressionless as his monotone voice.

“Dream.”

“Hello,” Dream responds. “May I come in?”

“Why?”

A smile to mirror the one painted on his mask stretches across his face.

“Just wanted to talk.”

Technoblade stares at him, not moving an inch.

“It’ll only take a minute.”

They stand there like that for a few seconds more before Technoblade shrugs his shoulders, moving away from the doorway.

“Come on in, Dream,” he says, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Please, make yourself at home.”

The first floor is small, chests lining the opposite wall. Dream walks over to them, sludge tracking through the house.

“Nice place you got here,” Dream says, opening a chest. He notices the way Technoblade tenses up. Good. Always nice to make the Blade feel uncomfortable. “Retirement treating you well?”

“Oh sure, it’s great, apart from people coming in here and thinking they can go through my stuff.”

There’s nothing important or telling inside, just a few stacks of wood and stone. But he didn’t think he would find anything here, on the first floor.

Dream slams the chest shut. 

“Just curious, is all.”

“Curious.”

“Yeah, I mean how does someone like yourself just… retire? After everything you’ve done, you’re happy just living the rest of your days out here, in the middle of nowhere?”

Technoblade squares his shoulders, narrows his eyes.

“Is there a point to this visit?”

“Yes, actually, there is,” Dream retorts, anger flaring. “Tommy left his exile a few days ago.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, he did. You haven’t heard anything from him, have you? Seen him around?”

Dream watches the other man’s face, watches for any tells. Technoblade’s jaw tightens slightly, but other than that, there is nothing.

“No, I haven’t.”

Dream nods.

“Well that’s good,” he says. “That’s good. Because you know you owe me, right? I saved Carl, didn’t I?”

Technoblade’s eyes flash to the corner of the room, so quickly they might not have moved at all. 

“I suppose I do owe you,” he says slowly.

“I’ve always thought of you as a man of your word,” Dream says. “I help you, you help me type of thing. I like that about you. Everyone else, there’s all these emotions and- and… I don’t know. I guess they don’t think as logically as us, do they?”

“You’re saying a lot of words, Dream.”

“I’m just saying, we understand each other. We speak with actions, not words. People say they can’t trust me,” he shakes his head. “It’s because they’re listening, when they should be watching. I’m sure they say the same about you.”

Technoblade remains quiet, watching Dream.

“I suppose you feel betrayed by L’Manburg, for nearly being executed for the thing you said you were going to do from the very beginning. Isn’t that funny? I think it’s funny,” he says. “Tommy’s just like them, you know. He thinks the same. He’ll never truly be on your side. He’ll use you, like he did before, and then betray you, like he did before,” he pauses. “But I’m sure that’s not really a concern is it? Because Tommy would never come here, would he?”

“Nope,” Technoblade responds, not a hint of emotion in his tone.

Dream nods, goes to the door. He turns to face the other man again.

“You do owe me, Technoblade. I’m going to hold you to that.”

He’s not going to be able to find anything, not while Technoblade is still here. And Technoblade will never admit anything, not unless Dream is absolutely sure. As much as it frustrates him, he’s going to have to come back later. 

He marches down the porch, wood creaking beneath his boots, cold air assaulting his exposed neck.

He feels watched as he crosses the snow covered field, following his earlier tracks. Like there is someone behind him. He turns around, facing the house again. No one stands in the windows, no one watches from the doorway. Still, he feels eyes on him as he continues back towards the portal, the sun just barely peeking out over the horizon now. 

He checks one more time, whipping around to find empty air again, before stepping through the portal, and returning to the Dream SMP. 

In the Holy Land, Tubbo waits for him. The young president had messaged him hours earlier, requesting a meeting with him, which would be attended by the other L’Manburg cabinet members. The four young men stand outside of the meeting room now, watching him as he approaches. He doesn’t like the eyes on him, but he straightens his shoulders and increases his pace.

Up close, the group doesn’t look too good. Eye bags and crooked ties, they look exhausted. Tubbo looks the worst of the group.

Presidency has changed Tubbo. Dream remembers him as a bright-eyed, energetic boy, smart and endlessly curious. The boy in front of him is grey-faced, dead-eyed, his shoulders slumped, his hair matted and greasy, his suit wrinkled. He supposes that the grief of thinking Tommy is dead has also contributed to the kid’s sad state.

Quackity looks him up and down with an openly hostile gaze, while Fundy smiles, a bit too wide for it to be sincere, and Ranboo draws into himself, not quite making eye contact. 

“Well, what’s this about?” he asks.

“In the meeting room,” Tubbo says, the words short, clipped. He doesn’t seem to have the energy for much else.

The meeting room is dimly lit, dark stone walls and randomly placed torches casting shadows on the faces of the L’Manbergians. The shadows pull at their faces, hollow their cheeks. 

“Well?”

Quackity looks over at Tubbo, who nods.

“We’re putting on a festival,” Quackity says. “For Christmas. And for L’Manburg.”

“A festival?” Dream asks incredulously. He remembers how the last one went. He is sure the others do too, besides Ranboo, though he is sure the boy has been told about it by now. Tubbo’s scars are still visible, starting at his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. He rubs at them absentmindedly, as if the word itself had triggered the reaction.

“Yes, a festival,” Quackity says. “You’re not deaf are you?”

“Quackity,” Tubbo says through clenched teeth.

“What we’re trying to say is, we would like for you to attend,” Fundy says. “As a sign of good faith. Thanks to you L’Manburg has never been so… prosperous,” the young man says, the last few words slower coming, as if he were forcing them through his teeth. 

“Yeah, prosperous,” Quackity mutters.

“There will also be a memorial service,” Tubbo says, his brown eyes rimmed red. “For- for Tommy.”

The room goes silent at the name.

Dream nods slowly.

“I am sorry about what happened,” he says softly. “I didn’t know he was that bad off. I think- oh I don’t know. I think maybe he felt like no one cared about him, because so few people came to visit.”

Tubbo inhales sharply from across the room.

“But I don’t know,” Dream says quickly. “I’m sure you were all busy, doing important things. You are leading a country, after all.”

Quackity glares at him from across the table.

“So are you coming or what?” he asks harshly.

“I think what he means is, will you kindly accept our invitation?” Fundy asks with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You called a meeting for this?” Dream asks.

“We wanted to personally invite you, make sure that you were coming. You’ll be a very important guest,” Fundy says. 

There is something in the room, something in the air he doesn’t like. Maybe it’s the fact that Ranboo won’t look at him. Or the fact that this is the very same group that tried to attack and kill Technoblade not a few days before. 

He doesn’t like the idea of a festival. He doesn’t like that they’re personally inviting him, making sure that he’s going. He doesn’t like that there’s no armor allowed in L’Manburg.

“Sure,” he says, white mask seeming to glow in the dark. “Sure, I’ll come.”

“Good,” Quackity says. “It’s going to be a lot of fun.”

When Dream leaves the meeting room he promptly pearls off into a forest on the edge of the SMP, where Punz awaits him.

“You heard about this festival thing?” Dream asks as they walk through the trees, deeper into the woods.

“Yes, actually I have. Interesting thing about Fundy; if you get him drunk he’ll tell you just about anything.”

“Will he?”

“Yep.”

“And what did he say about this festival?”

“Oh, nothing good. It’s all just a big plot to kill you.”

Dream nods.

“That makes sense.”

“You’re not worried?”

“It’ll call for a slight change in plans. But I think we can get it to work for us. I just need to find out where Tommy is hiding.”

...

It is evening when Dream returns to the snowy biome, hiding out in the hills until he sees Technoblade leave his house. He waits until the Blade is nothing but a dot in the distance before he scrambles down the hill, approaching the house once again.

This time, it is a grey, thin face pressed against the window. Wilbur. The phantom catches sight of him and quickly turns around.

Dream does not knock this time. He throws the door open, left unlocked, and barges in, footsteps heavy on the oak floor.

“Oh hello Dream,” Wilbur says, hovering in front of him. “What a surprise! What are you doing here?”

“Nothing, Wilbur,” Dream says, ascending the ladder to the second floor of the house. 

Wilbur follows him, phasing through the ceiling of the first floor, through the floor of the second. 

“Well surely you’re doing something, you wouldn’t come all this way if you weren’t!”

Dream ignores the ghost as he searches the room. It is small, with a single bed and a few chests. He rummages through the chests, finds nothing suspicious. He pushes the bed away from the wall, searching underneath it, looking for trapdoors, anything.

“What are you looking for?” Wilbur asks quietly, wringing his hands nervously.

“I’m looking for Tommy,” Dream says, gritting his teeth. “Know anything about that, Wilbur?”

“No,” the ghost says, teetering on the word. “No, of course I don’t.”

“Yeah, of course you don’t,” Dream mutters, climbing back down the ladder.

“Did something happen?” Wilbur asks, following along behind him.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, something did happen, Wilbur, Tommy left his exile.”

“Exile? Tommy was exiled?”

Dream exhales, standing over a trapdoor on the first floor.

“Where does this go?” he asks.

“The basement,” Wilbur says. His face suddenly lights up. “Oh, I love the basement. That’s where I keep Friend! Would you like to meet Friend, Dream?”

Dream wrenches the trapdoor open, squeezing himself through the hole and carefully descending into the basement. The basement is larger than the other rooms in the house, but is much emptier. The stone walls are bare and a single blue sheep resides in the corner, tethered to a fence. Hay is scattered underneath it.

“Look, it’s Friend!” Wilbur exclaims, hovering near the sheep. “Come meet Friend, Dream.”

Dream shakes his head, feeling along the cold walls of the basement. 

“Wilbur, if you know something about Tommy, you need to tell me. I’m just trying to help him.”

“You keep calling me Wilbur,” the phantom says, ignoring the statement. “I’m not Wilbur, though.”

“What would you prefer I call you then?” Dream asks drily, pacing the length of the room. He knows Tommy has been here. But where?

“Well most people just call me Ghostbur now. I like that. I’m not Wilbur,” he says, voice rising in pitch. “I’m not.” 

Dream approaches the corner where Friend lays, lazy eyes surveying the scene before him. 

“Tell the sheep to move,” Dream says.

“Oh, well Friend likes to sit there,” Wilbur says, smiling fondly. “That’s his favorite spot, actually.”

“Tell Friend to move or I’ll put this sword through his heart, what about that?” Dream says, unsheathing his sword. “I’m not fucking around Wilbur. Move the sheep.”

The ghost seems to go even paler, if that’s possible, his eyes widening like a child chastised. 

“Ok, sure, Dream,” he says, voice shaking. “Just don’t hurt Friend, ok?”

Wilbur whispers into the sheep’s ear, gently pulling it by the lead. The sheep is fat, and reluctant to move, but Wilbur manages to convince it to get up and waddle towards another corner.

“See, he moved, Dream. Friend is a good sheep. Don’t hurt him please.”

Dream kneels down next to the pile of hay, frantically pushing the straw away. In seconds he has uncovered another trapdoor.

“What’s this, Wilbur?” he asks slowly, heart racing.

“It’s nothing,” Wilbur says. “Just a storage room. Doesn’t matter.”

Dream throws the door open, peers down into the room.

It is apparent from just one glance that Tommy has been here. There is a bed in the corner surrounded by yellow walls, signs mounted across them. He can’t see all of them but the one he does see (that one says “build a new girlfriend”) makes it very clear who’s been down here. And of course, in the corner of the room, is the Prime Log, with a bell on top of it.

“A storage room, huh?”

“Yes, yes, just a storage room, no need to go down there,” the ghost says, erupting into a sudden and violent coughing fit. “The weather is making me sick, I think,” he says weakly, smiling down at Dream. 

Dream ignores the phantom, deafened by the anger racing through his body. His hands shake and his vision spins as he climbs down into the hole. 

He goes through each chest in the room, one by one, and finds them full of pictures, pictures that Tommy had on the island, of Tubbo and L’Manburg, finds books that Tommy wrote, lists of things to do. He takes each item and he tears it to shreds. He rips the pictures, scattering the remains around the room, he takes the books and rips out the pages, throwing the covers and pageless spines against the wall, he snatches the sheets off the bed, stabs the pillow until feathers fly, floating aimlessly around the room, mines the yellow from the wall and takes the bell, placing it in his inventory. 

Wilbur watches, face twisted in horror, unable to do anything but watch the crazed scene in front of him. 

“Stop,” he tries to say, but Dream cannot hear, will not hear anything from the ghost. 

He is a flurry of limbs, a raging storm, and he cannot stop himself as he continues to tear the room apart, dismantling everything in sight.

Dream finally stops, chest heaving, panting for breath. He stands there, in the middle of the room, silently catching his breath, trying to contain the red hot flow of fury that has become harder to control. Wilbur makes a choked sort of noise, as if trying to hold back tears. 

“I know Tommy is hiding out here,” Dream says suddenly, breathing almost even again, voice low. “I know.”

“Dream-”

“You lied, Wilbur. I don’t like it when people lie to me.”

“But he’s not here,” Wilbur says shakily. “I haven’t seen Tommy in ages, I swear.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Dream snarls, crossing the room so he is face to face with the ghost, who flinches away, as if Dream could inflict harm on him still. “I’m not stupid. Do you think I’m stupid?”

The ghost shakes his head frantically.

“You used to be something, Wilbur,” Dream says lowly. “You used to actually be something formidable. Can you believe I was actually scared of you once? Now you’re just…  _ pathetic _ ,” he spits the word out, venom lacing his tone. “Fucking pathetic.”

He turns away sharply, climbing up the ladder, quickening his pace with each rung. He shouldn't have destroyed the room. Technoblade would know for sure that he was here. Then again, Wilbur would probably spill anyways. 

Besides, it felt good to destroy something of Tommy’s. It felt good to bring him back down again. It felt good to reestablish who exactly was in charge. 

He exits the house, slamming the door behind him and running directly into Technoblade’s broad frame. Stumbling backwards, he reaches for his sword, leveling it at the Blade’s armored chest. The sword glows purple in the fading light.

“What are you doing here Dream?” Technoblade asks, words accentuated by an anger barely restrained.

“I know Tommy’s been here, I know you’re hiding him here,” Dream says, jamming the tip of his sword against Technoblade’s chest so he stumbles back a few paces. “I know you’re a  _ liar. _ ”

“Okay,” the Blade says, breath fogging in the cold night air. “And what are you doing to do about that, Dream?”

Dream’s whole body vibrates with anger, his blood practically boils within his veins. 

“I have a few ideas,” he says, voice sharp as a knife.

“Are you threatening me Dream? You think that’s a good idea?”

“I’ll threaten whoever I want on my own goddamn server.”

“You don’t threaten me,” Technoblade says dangerously, flicking the sword away from him. “And you don’t threaten my friends, or my family.”

“So that’s why you’re protecting him? You’re protecting that little shit because he’s your brother?” Dream laughs. “Seems I misjudged you, Technoblade. Maybe you are sentimental.”

“Stay away from here. I see you around here again, I kill you.”

Dream shakes his head, a malicious smile spreading across his face.

“It’s good to know you can be motivated. That’s very good to know,” Dream says, swinging his sword aimlessly. “I still have that favor to cash in, you know. I won’t ask you to do anything tonight. Not tonight. But when I do,” he says, voice lowering, almost to a whisper, harsh and cutting. “I’ll make sure there’s more of an incentive.”

With that he pearls away. Technoblade stays there, standing very still as Tommy materializes next to him, as Ghostbur hovers on the other side of him.

“It will be alright, Techno,” Ghostbur whispers. “Here, have some blue.”

Technoblade accepts the blue, but he remains standing there, staring out into the black night for a long while afterwards.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy's POV, directly after Dream leaves. SBI interactions follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok switching it up a bit with a Tommy POV!!! I was getting bored just writing Dream so I decided why not throw some Tommy in here. Also I love writing sleepy bois stuff so I just had to. 
> 
> Also: I didn't really edit this chapter so that is my excuse if anything sounds weird or not in character. Tommy is also just all over the place right now and capturing that energy is very hard lol. I hope it is readable and maybe, dare I say it, enjoyable. Thank you for reading!

Tommy feels cold. It is not a cold brought on by standing out in the snow, watching Dream disappear through a Nether Portal in the distance, snowflakes dusting his shoulders and hair. It is not a cold brought on by the draft in the house, wind whistling down through the chimney. 

It is not a natural sort of cold. It is an empty sort of cold, as if he were hollowed out, the warmth scraped out of him.

He is sitting at the table in the kitchen, head between his arms, settled on the tabletop. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting like this. Ghostbur hovers nearby, chattering on about something Tommy isn’t listening to. Technoblade is still outside. 

He thinks he should feel something. Anything. Fear or anger or sadness or betrayal. It’s like his mind can’t decide on a single emotion, so it has decided on nothing at all. 

He watches his feet, follows the patterns of the grain in the wooden planks beneath them. An ant, carrying a tiny crumb on its back, scrambles across the wooden floor. He thinks about smashing it beneath his foot for a moment. A memory of a much younger Tubbo, scolding him for attempting to squish a beetle, flashes through his mind, and he decides against it.

The ant continues on. Technoblade is still outside.

“Tommy,” Ghostbur whispers in his ear. “Tommy, are you okay?”

Tommy can’t move, can’t raise his head or shape his mouth into a reply. He suddenly feels exhausted, eyelids heavy, as if he hasn’t slept in days. He wants to lie down, but his stomach twists when he remembers the wrecked state of his room, when he remembers frantically chugging an invisibility potion, watching from above as Dream tore everything he owned apart. He doesn’t want to go back down there.

The front door slams and Tommy jerks up, for a moment imagining Dream had returned, coming to drag him back into exile. 

Something too close to relief flows through him. He doesn’t like Dream, he reminds himself, squeezing his eyes shut. He hates Dream.

“What did he find?” Technoblade asks, voice rough. His hair is wet with partially melted snow, hanging in his face, his nose and cheeks bright red with cold, but his eyes, those burn with a heat, a ferocity that normally entails murder.

“He- he went through Tommy’s room,” Ghostbur says. He remains hovering next to Tommy, who keeps quiet. “Tore everything apart. He made a big mess.”

“He saw it all?”

Ghosbur nods. 

“He said he was going to hurt Friend,” he adds softly. “I didn’t want him to hurt Friend.”

Technoblade exhales, his lips tightening into a very thin line. He is completely tensed, as if still expecting a physical fight. 

“You’re lucky there wasn’t anything important in there,” he says, staring down at Tommy.

“He ripped up the pictures of Tubbo,” Tommy rasps, voice hoarse from disuse. He has not talked since Dream arrived, what could have been hours ago. “Why did he do that?”

“Because he’s the bad guy, Tommy,” Technoblade says, taking off his cloak, throwing it onto a nearby chair a bit too forcefully. “Because he wants to hurt you.”

“He doesn’t- he doesn’t want to hurt me, though.”

“Yes he does, Tommy.”

“No, no, he doesn’t because he stayed with me, he was the only one who stayed with me when I was- when I was alone,” Tommy says, voice shaking.

“He’s the reason you were exiled Tommy!” Techno says, voice rising. 

“But he- he’s my friend.”

“He’s not your friend!” Technoblade yells, slamming a hand on the table. Tommy startles, eyes widening as his entire body flinches away from the noise. 

“And now he’s going to go after-” Technoblade stops short, shakes his head. His eyes fall on Tommy, on his quivering form, and the fire in his expression dies. “He’s not your friend,” he repeats, quieter this time, clearing his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Technoblade frowns.

“I’ve already told you, you don’t gotta apologize,” he says, gruff voice much softer than normal. “Ok? Don’t apologize for stuff like that. You’re just- you’re confused right now.”

Tommy certainly feels confused. He wants to hate Dream with everything in him, wants to be like Technoblade, strong and stoic, never bending, never wavering, but he remembers being so alone, and then having Dream, and no one else. No one else cared like Dream did. No one else was there for him, like Dream was. 

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ confused,” he whispers, lowering his eyes to the table. He traces the wood with his fingertip. 

“It’ll be alright,” Ghostbur says with an enthusiasm no one else in the room shares. “I’ll get you new pictures, Tommy. And we’ll fix your room and everything.”

“I don’t want to go down there,” Tommy says, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t want to go down there anymore.”

“Where will you sleep, then?” Ghostbur asks.

“Just sleep in my bed tonight. I’m going out,” Techno says, grabbing his fur cloak from where he had thrown it moments earlier. 

“Where are you going?” Ghostbur asks. 

“I’m going to talk to Phil.”

“Oh, I love Phil!” Ghostbur exclaims, clapping his hands. “Can he come back here?”

“That is the plan,” Techno says, rummaging through a chest, pulling out a few potions of invisibility and placing them in his inventory. 

“I like this plan,” Ghostbur says. “Don’t you like this plan, Tommy?”

Tommy hasn’t seen Phil in what feels like years. He remembers him visiting once on the island, but that memory is blurry, as are most of his memories of exile. He prefers not to dwell on it.

There are other memories of Phil, older memories, happier memories. Guiding hands, a loud laugh, a soft smile. Those are from before L’Manburg. 

It seems there is always a before, always an after. L’Manburg rises up like a great wall in his memories, a clear divide between the old Tommy, and the new. He wants so bad to go back to being the old Tommy, the Tommy that Phil knew.

“Sure,” he says. “Great plan.”

Techno throws the cloak around his shoulders. 

“I’ll be back by morning,” he says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He steps out into the night, wind howling, before slamming the door shut again, leaving Tommy and Ghostbur alone together.

They sit in silence for a moment.

“You know, what he said wasn’t true,” Tommy finally says, interjecting into the quiet. He looks over at Ghostbur, whose grey eyes are watching him intently. “Dream. He said you were pathetic. I don’t think you’re pathetic.”

Ghostbur smiles sadly. 

“That’s nice of you to say,” he says. 

“I’m being serious, man. Like really serious. I don’t think you’re pathetic at all. You’re different from Wilbur, that’s true. But Wilbur was a real dick sometimes, and he did a lot of shitty stuff. So maybe it’s good you’re not the same.”

He says it, even though there is an eternal ache in his chest, a hole where Wilbur used to be. The real Wilbur, not the batshit one. The one from before L’Manburg. He thinks that maybe he lost his brother all the way back then, back when L’Manburg was just an idea, months, years, before there was a sword stuck in the center of his chest. 

“I don’t think you’re pathetic, either, Tommy,” Ghostbur says.

“Who was saying I’m pathetic?”

“I don’t know,” Ghostbur says, picking at his sweater. “I just… I know I don’t remember much. But I remember some of the good bits. And I see you now. And I think you’re really brave, and strong, and maybe you don’t know that. Maybe Wilbur never told you that.”

He doesn’t feel brave, or strong, right now. He feels the complete opposite. He feels scared and weak, hiding behind his older brothers like he used to when he was small. He misses feeling like he used to beside Wilbur, tall and important, like he could do anything.

He looks over at Ghostbur, his gaunt face as sincere as ever. 

Tommy suddenly feels the strange urge to cry, looking into the face of the warped reflection of his brother. He clears his throat.

“Ok, well enough of that,” he says, standing up. “It’s my bedtime. Self-appointed bedtime,” he clarifies. “I tell myself when I go to bed.”

Ghostbur follows him up to the second floor, Techno’s room, which is usually off limits to the both of them. 

It is neat, neater than any room Tommy has ever inhabited, with a bed in one corner and a few chests in the opposite. Tommy is immediately drawn to the chests, opening them and going through the items as Ghostbur looks on.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Tommy,” Ghostbur says as Tommy pockets a few ender pearls.

“There’s like ten stacks in there,” Tommy replies, shrugging. “He doesn’t need  _ all  _ of them.”

He looks through the other chests, placing a few more items in his inventory before moving over towards the bed.

Ghostbur turns, as if to leave.

“Wait!” Tommy exclaims with a sudden panic. “Wil, wait!

“What, Tommy?” the ghost asks softly.

“Will you stay with me? I don’t,” he swallows. “I don’t want to be alone.”

The ghost nods.

“Sure I will,” he says, sitting down cross legged on the floor next to the bed. “I’ll stay here all night if you want. Like lads on tour again.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, lying down. “Lads on tour.”

He doesn’t sleep much. The bed is foreign, the walls cast strange shadows. The wind howls outside the window. He keeps seeing Dream’s mask, white as bone, an eerie, all knowing smile watching him. 

Ghostbur reads a book he brought with him from his library, and after an hour of restless half-sleep, he begins reading it out loud to Tommy, whispers loud enough to drown out the memories that play out on the back of his eyelids. 

He doesn’t know he’s fallen asleep until he jerks awake, the sound of a slamming door and low voices startling him out of the bed. Light spills throw the window. Ghostbur is gone. 

The panic of being left alone sends him scrambling down the trapdoor, hands shaking, to the main floor.

“Good morning Tommy!” Ghostbur exclaims as he descends the last few rungs of the ladder. “Look who it is!”

He points over at the doorway, where Technoblade and Phil stand, matching furs around their shoulders, snowflakes whitening their hair, dirt smeared on their faces and clothes.

“Hello Tommy,” Phil says. He smiles. “It’s good to see you here.”

He crosses the distance between them, pulling Tommy into a quick hug. Tommy leans into it, familiar and warm.

“How are you?” Phil asks as he pulls away. He holds Tommy at arms length, checking him over. 

“Fine, I’m fine.”

“You look skinny.”

“Well that’s because Techno never feeds me.”

“That’s not true,” Techno interjects.

“You yelled at me the other day for having lunch.”

“That’s because your idea of lunch was eating ten of  _ my  _ gapples!”

Ghostbur giggles.

“I had some as well,” he says sheepishly.

“Oh, and you gave some to Ghostbur, that’s just great.”

“He was hungry, man, what was I supposed to do?”

“Ok, that was a loaded observation,” Phil says, chuckling. His presence is somehow revitalizing, the energy in the room a lot lighter than it was the night before.

“How are you here?” Tommy asks. “Techno said you were on house arrest.”

“Well,” Phil says, looking over at Techno. “The current L’Manburg government isn’t very… efficient.”

“We broke off his ankle monitor and then spent all last night creating a tunnel, from Phil’s house in L’Manburg to here,” Techno says. “It’s a precaution, in case Dream tries anything.”

“Speaking of trying something,” Phil says. “Isn’t there something you were going to show us Techno?”

Techno smiles, teeth sharp. 

“Oh, yes,” he says. “I think there’s something you’ll all want to see.”

“Grab a coat, Tommy,” Phil says. 

“Where are we going?” Tommy asks, pulling a coat from his inventory. 

“You’ll see,” Techno says. 

“Why can’t you just tell me?” Tommy asks as they all step out onto the porch, the sunlight reflected off the white snow blinding. 

“Just wait,” Techno says, heading off into the snow.

“You’re a bitch, you know that?”

“Tommy,” Phil scolds, but he is smiling, amusement apparent on his face. 

They continue on through the snow, sun now high overhead. Everyone seems happier now that Phil is here. Even Techno, who is not famous for his ability to emote, seems much calmer than he was last night. The conversation is easy and light when they arrive at the base of a mountain.

Tommy looks up, craning his neck.

“We’re not climbing this fuckin’ thing are we?”

“No,” Techno says, stepping to the side of the group. He seems to be looking for something in the ground.

“Care to explain what we’re doing, then?”

“Patience, Tommy,” Phil says. “I think Techno knows what he’s doing.”

Tommy opens his mouth, a biting response on the tip of tongue, when the mountain suddenly opens up before them, stone walls retracting into the ground. 

“What the…” he whispers.

“Welcome home, Theseus,” Techno says, a grin stretching across his face.

Tommy takes a step forward into the cavern.

“Jesus Christ, Techno,” Phil says. His eyes widen as he looks around at the surrounding walls.

Tommy follows Phil’s eyes, turning towards the walls. His stomach drops at the site. Rows and rows of wither skulls line the cavern’s walls, looking down on the group.

“Holy fuckin’ shit, man,” Tommy says. “Holy shit.”

“What are all these skeletons doing in here?” Ghostbur asks, hovering in front of one of the skulls, staring into its empty sockets. He shivers, turning away.

“They’re wither skulls, Ghostbur,” Phil says, still staring in awe at the collection. 

“Oh,” the ghost says. “I don’t like them.”

The skulls are a bit eerie, Tommy thinks. He feels them watching him. A shiver runs down his spine. He doesn’t like being watched.

“What do you think, Phil?” Techno asks, voice echoing, watching the others with amusement. “How do you feel about revenge?”

Phil turns from the skulls, looking over at Techno.

“I like it,” he says, laughing incredulously. “I like it a lot.”

...

The cave houses many other resources, including netherite armor and weapons, some of which Tommy pockets for later. He doesn’t tell Techno about the missing items.

The walk seems shorter now, full of energy. Phil can’t stop talking about an upcoming festival that L’Manburg will be hosting.

“It’s the perfect opportunity, Techno,” he says. “Everyone will be there.”

“Everyone?” Tommy interjects. “Everyone at a festival? Where’s my invitation?”

“You’re dead, Tommy, remember?” Techno says.

“Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”

“Besides, you’re kind of associating with enemies of the state at the moment. I don’t think you would be welcome.”

“Nah,” Tommy says, looking out on the white horizon. “Tubbo would have invited me anyway.”

Phil and Techno share a look.

“Tommy, I think you should know, Tubbo’s not exactly the same since you last saw him,” Phil says softly. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, he’s young, and he’s leading a country, and that changes people. He’s not changed for the better.”

They trudge on in silence for a moment.

“We’re not going to be using those withers on L’Manburg, are we?” Tommy asks suddenly.

The silence stretches on.

“No,” Techno finally says. “No, of course we won’t.”

“Good,” Tommy says. “Because I just need my disks back, that’s all. If I can get my disks back, then this will all be over and we won’t have to use the withers.”

“Sure, Tommy,” Phil says. “Sure.”

When they get home Ghostbur goes straight to Friend, still lying, quite content, on the floor of the basement. Tommy hesitates at the trapdoor. Just going down to the basement makes him nervous.

He hasn’t had the opportunity to go down and check the status of his room, try to find anything that might be salvageable, but now that he has the chance, he feels his stomach turn. 

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and turns to face Phil.

“You don’t have to go down there,” Phil says. “Techno told me what happened.”

“It’s fine,” Tommy says, shaking his hand off his shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Tommy. It’s really not.”

Tommy shrugs, licks his chapped lips.

“He used to do it, on the island, too. He used to take my stuff and burn it,” his eyes glaze over, and he sees Dream, standing in front of him, gesturing for him to drop his items.

“Just do it, Tommy,” he would say, mask tilting downwards in a way that always felt patronizing.

“That’s fucked,” Phil says. 

Tommy blinks. Is it? Dream always gave him stuff afterwards. 

“You know why he’s doing all this shit? You know why he can’t stop going after you?” 

“Why?” Tommy asks, and he wants to know, he wants to know why Dream can’t just leave him, why he cares so much, why Tommy feels drawn to him, though he knows he shouldn’t.

“It’s because he’s scared of you.”

Tommy snorts.

“Yeah, I’m a big man, he should be scared of me.”

“I’m serious Tommy,” Phil says. “He’s scared of you. He’s scared of losing control over you. You’re the only person on this server that he’s really scared of.”

Does Dream feel fear? Is that even possible? His armor is impenetrable, his mask is a wall. There is no way to ever tell exactly what the man is feeling, what he’s thinking. If he’s ever felt fear, it is something buried deep within him, something Tommy has never seen. 

Tommy thinks about what Phil said, hours later, as he builds another house next to Techno’s, which was something that he had only managed to convince Techno of with the help of Ghostbur. So repulsive is his room under the house to him that he now stands in the cold, fumbling with wood and stone as Ghostbur watches, a look of confusion on his face.

“Tommy, it looks so bad,” the phantom says. “How can you think that looks good?”

“I’m fuckin’ trying, alright?” Tommy says, angrily placing another stone block on the half-built monstrosity. It was meant to be a house in the shape of a square, but it’s more of a lopsided rectangle, and he doesn’t have enough oak so half of the walls are oak and the other half are stone.

“It doesn’t look like it,” Ghostbur says, not a hint of anything malicious in his tone, just stating the facts. “It looks like you’re actually not trying at all.”

“I can’t build, alright! I admit it!” Tommy says, throwing his arms in the air. “It’s the one thing I don’t excel at.”

“You’re just doing it all wrong,” Ghostbur says, inspecting the building from above before floating back down to be level with Tommy. 

“Well you do it then, if you’re so smart. I’ve got other things to do.”

“What other things do you have to do?” Ghostbur asks.

Tommy smiles, a truly mischievous smile, a glint in his eyes, more life in them now than there’s been for a few weeks.

“Apparently,” he says. “I scare people.”

Ghostbur frowns.

“I wouldn’t say scare people, so much as worry them,” the ghost says.

“No, no, Phil says that people are scared of me. He says  _ Dream _ is scared of me.”

The ghost raises his eyebrows at that.

“Are you sure that’s what he said?”

“Yes, asshole, I’m sure that’s what he said. It’s because I’m intimidating, obviously. So that’s what I’m going to do, to get my disks back. I’m going to go around intimidating people and they’ll be so scared of what I’m going to do that I won’t have to do anything at all and on the day of the festival, they’ll just hand the disks over.”

“How are you going to intimidate people?”

“Oh you know,” Tommy says. “I’m just going to commit a few minor acts of terrorism around L’Manburg. Nothing crazy, just enough for them to think: ‘damn, we’re really fucked.’”

“But how are you going to intimidate people if everyone thinks you’re dead?” 

Tommy pauses, smirk falling from his face.

“I keep forgetting about that part.”

“Yeah, you do,” Ghostbur says. “I don’t like this plan, I don’t think Techno or Phil would like it either.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tommy says, ignoring his ghost brother, thinking out loud. “They’ll figure it out soon enough. I’ll be at the festival, won’t I, to get the disks? They’ll see me then.”

“Tommy, I really don’t think you should do this.”

“Too late,” Tommy says, dropping the remaining stacks of stone left in a chest. “This is fuckin’ boring, and I have better, more productive things to do.”

“This is supposed to be  _ your  _ house, Tommy,” Ghostbur says, voice rising as Tommy walks off to the Nether Portal. “I’m not gonna make it for-”

Tommy pearls away, using the ender pearls he had stolen from Techno earlier, and Ghostbur’s voice is left far behind. 

He’s sure this is a good plan. Like all of his plans. 

He steps through the portal, into the Nether, down the path he had created, into another portal. Head spinning, he steps through, into the fading light of evening on the Dream SMP. 

Like a child drawn to the fire, sticking their hand in the dancing blue flames, Tommy feels himself being pulled to L’Manburg. He cannot fight it, even if he comes away burned. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Tommy's "minor terrorism". Nobody is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another update!!! this is the last chapter before stuff really starts happening, so I'm excited for y'all to read it. there's a mix of POV's with Tommy and Dream and some Ranboo to spice things up. el rapids also debuts this chapter, which i am excited about because those guys are fun. this chapter also kind of marks the end of me trying to make things as canon like as possible, at this point i'm just going to write what i think should happen and if it happens to line up with what does happen then cool. 
> 
> also: thank you for the comments!!!! i know i don't respond, which I feel bad about. I'm new to writing stuff for other people to read so i do get a bit nervous when thinking about responding to comments, but i really do appreciate them and i don't want anyone to think i'm ignoring them lol. i'm going to try to be better at responding because y'all are great.
> 
> anyways, enjoy the chapter! i'm excited for what's to come!!!

Dream wakes to a boost of adrenaline, heat thrumming through his veins, an incessant pulse of  _ wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up _ in his head. He is immediately on his feet, a trained, practiced fluidity in his movements, though he himself is only half-awake. 

In the dark of a cave somewhere thousands of blocks south of the Dream SMP, where no one has ever had any desire to go, Dream stands, tensed, armor still on from when he had drifted into sleep, axe and shield gripped tightly, heart racing.

There is no threat, he slowly realizes. There are no enemies, with the faces of old allies, swords unsheathed, crossbows drawn, axes held against his throat. There is nothing but damp stone walls and the echo of his own heavy breathing.

He kicks a loose rock across the cavern just to hear something besides his own pathetic gasps for air ringing in his ears. 

The mask, firmly clasped against his face, suddenly feels too tight, suffocating almost, his armor too constricting. Sleeping in the mask and armor makes him feel secure, protected, but now he feels like they may be the reason for his sudden death, choking on his own short breaths.

With shaking hands and a panicked urgency, he rips the glowing armor off of his body, the pieces hitting the ground with echoing clangs, pushes the mask up onto his sweaty forehead. 

The fresh air feels freeing and he drinks it in, breathing slowly evening out. 

Being exposed like this, with no armor, no mask, even with no one around, feels wrong. Dream  _ is  _ the mask, ever-watching, all-knowing. Without it he is… what?

He reaches up, fingertips tracing a familiar scar, running across his face. He remembers vividly the day he got it, the burning pain, the red that blurred his vision. He remembers the shame, the agony, more painful than the cut itself, of becoming touchable. 

When was the last time he had seen his own face? 

Not since he had shown it to friends who are now gone. 

And he understands it all too well, accepts it easily.

Weakness is a friend you cannot leave, an object you cannot give up. So he has left friends and he has given up everything and in turn the weakness has been burned from him, and like this he will forever be untouchable. 

Like this. Alone, in a dank cave, miles from what was once home. 

He will have it back. It won’t be the same, not like it used to be. Tommy has taken that from him. But it will be home again. 

He takes a steadying breath, strapping his armor back into place, pulling the mask down over his face. He becomes Dream again. With a confidence infused into his movements, he leaves the cave, another temporary shelter, and heads for the Dream SMP, the sun rising over the eastern horizon.

Tommy watches that same sunrise from his old home, drinking a last invisibility potion as he stares out at the red and gold streaked sky. He was supposed to leave as soon as possible, wreak as much minor havoc as he could before returning to Techno’s house. He finds himself lingering at the old bench, the old tree, imagining what could have been if Tubbo had not betrayed him.

Thinking about Tubbo is just as confusing as thinking about any other relationship in his life. There is the anger, the desperate, clawing anger, of being deceived, of being thrown out, left alone to rot away by his own best friend. There is the fear, that Tubbo truly does hate him now, truly wants nothing to do with him. There is bitter sadness that taints even the happiest of memories, the sorrow of loss.

Sitting at the bench, alone, he imagines music, once happy, and he imagines a best friend beside him. 

Shouts soon echo in the distance, as the sun fully peeks over the horizon, startling him out of his reverie. For a moment he forgets he is invisible, ducking instinctively behind the tree, before realizing that that is not necessary. 

The shouting is coming from the direction of L’Manburg, the voices too far away to be discernible. He hurries away from the voices, away from anyone he might have once known, back towards the community house and the Nether Portal.

He runs down the Prime Path, heart racing, and nearly crashes directly into Dream. His reflexes kick in right before he runs into the armored man, throwing himself to the ground on the side of the path.

Heart pounding, he watches as Dream turns around, tilting his head in Tommy’s direction. Tommy presses his hand to his mouth, trying to stifle his panting as Dream pauses, staring directly at where Tommy lays. 

Another shout, and Dream turns away from Tommy, continuing on down the path towards L’Manburg with an increased urgency in his step.

Tommy leans back on his elbows, shivering, staring after the fading figure. He doesn’t like the tightness in his chest, the ball of emotions that begins to unravel when Dream is near.

_ He’s not your friend, _ Techno had said. But Techno had betrayed him, a friend, a brother, and so had Wilbur and so had Tubbo. 

If all a friend is is someone who would use you, who would have you one day and then try to kill you the next, maybe it is good that Dream is not a friend. At least then he can never be betrayed by the man.

He feels conflicted, confused. He wishes someone would just tell him how to feel.

“I’m going home,” Tommy says to himself quietly, shaking his head. “I’m going home.”

Home is now with Techno, and Ghostbur, and sometimes Phil, he decides. That’s what home used to be, before L’Manburg. That feels safe, a thing that existed before L’Manburg. Before things became tainted.

He stands up on shaky legs and continues on to the Nether Portal, as Dream makes his way into L’Manburg.

The country is decorated festively, artificial snow covering the docks and the closely nestled buildings. Lights are wrapped around the stair railings, and wreaths hang from oak doors. The festival is in a few days, and it seems the L’Manburgians are taking the decorations seriously.

It almost makes him laugh. His own execution, decorated so thoughtfully. He should be touched.

Looking at decorations is not why Dream is here, though. Punz had sent him a message, telling him to get over to L’Manburg, and he had heard the shouting all the way from behind Tommy’s old house.

He sees the problem already, holes torn into the wooden docks, probably by tnt, random cobblestone structures scattered around the area. There are signs with vague threats put up on the walls.

He knows who did this without even reading the signs further. This has Tommy written all over it. The thought of Tommy running around freely, practically under his nose, blowing things up, clearly mocking him, is not a pleasant one.

Dream peers up to where the voices are coming from. Hovering in the sky, a portion of its shadow cast over L’Manburg, is the country of El Rapids, a country which, more so than L’Manburg, fills Dream with a dangerous rage. 

A nation created for no reason, that provides nothing to the server, and is a way for all his previous allies to mock him. One day he would blow it all up and watch their faces, the flames reflected in their wide eyes.

He can see from below the dirt mass a group of people, loud voices carrying down into L’Manburg. They mix together into a cacophony of noise.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What the honk?”

“We’re not just going to sit around and take this shit!”

“Tubbo, we gotta do something.”

He pearls up, landing next to the group without warning. Karl flinches, yelping, but the rest of the group is used to Dream’s sudden intrusions. They go silent, hostility heavy in the air. George, Sapnap, Quackity and Karl, with Tubbo, Fundy and Ranboo standing beside them. The L’Manburgians lower their eyes, but the members of El Rapids stare with an open obstinance.

“What do you want?” George asks first, arms folded across his chest. He is glaring at Dream, no fear in his eyes. 

“I’m seeing what all the commotion is about,” Dream replies, forcing himself to remain calm, to keep his voice even. His chest constricts when George speaks, when he looks at him, even with hate blazing in his eyes. “The whole server can hear you yelling.”

“Someone has griefed L’Manburg,” Tubbo says, his entire aura screaming exasperation.

“And El Rapids,” Quackity says.

“Yes, I saw that, your little pyramid thing has a few holes in it, doesn’t it?”

George shifts.

“It’s not a ‘little pyramid thing’,” he says. “And I don’t see why you care.”

Dream laughs.

“Oh come on, George, don’t act like you don’t think you’re above this,” he says. “Don’t act like you, of all people, care.”

“I do care,” George says defensively. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know  _ everything _ about you, George,” Dream replies. “You don’t give a fuck, just be honest.”

“Hey, we don’t need your help, asshole,” Quackity interjects. “We know who did this, so you can go now.”

“And who is that?” Dream asks. 

“Technoblade, obviously,” Fundy says. "He's L'Manburg's biggest enemy right now."

“Obviously,” Dream echoes. It is amusing, seeing them mashing pieces together that don’t fit. “And now you’re planning on what, going after him again?”

“None of your damn business, that’s what we’re doing,” Quackity says, stepping forward. “Fuck off.”

“You’ve gotten bold lately, Quackity,” Dream says, his voice lowering to a dangerous edge. “You should be careful what you say.”

“Quackity,” Karl whispers, but it falls on deaf ears.

“This is my goddamn country, I get to say what I want,” Quackity gets closer, staring up into the mask. Dream is taller than him by a head, but the shorter man stares up defiantly still, venom in his eyes. “And right now, I say I want you gone.”

“What will you do if I don’t leave, Quackity? Kill me?”

Quackity’s eyes flash over to the L’Manburgians, who shift uncomfortably. 

Dream smiles, though no one can see it.

“That would be stupid, wouldn’t it?” he says quietly. “It would be stupid to try.”

The shorter man’s lips tighten into a white, thin line.

“What are you saying?” he asks.

“I’m saying, I know what’s going on,” Dream raises his voice now, addressing the whole group. “I know what you’ve been planning,” he says, pointing at the L’Manburgians, who watch with wide, guilty eyes. The members of El Rapids watch the exchange, clearly confused. “I know you were going to try to kill me at that festival.”

Tubbo’s fists clench, his knuckles turning white. He won’t look at Dream.

“You thought that was a good idea, Tubbo?” Dream asks softly. “You, who I thought was going to make real change. You listened to these… these  _ idiots _ ,” he gestures at Quackity and Fundy, whose faces are now completely white. “I have to admit, I’m disappointed.”

He shakes his head.

“And now you think you can go after Technoblade,  _ again.  _ Remember what happened last time, Tubbo?”

The boy’s eyes are still downcast, his jaw clenched tight.

“Don’t talk to him,” Quackity rasps. “You don’t get to talk to him or tell him what to do. You don’t get to tell any of us what to do.”

“And you seem to have forgotten what happened the last time you went after Technoblade as well, Quackity,” Dream continues. “You only have one life left, isn’t that right? Are you really so stupid?”

“They have _us_ this time,” Sapnap interjects, nervously shifting his hold on the hilt of his sword, still sheathed.

“You? What an advantage.” Dream laughs. “You’re  _ nothing,  _ Sapnap. You’re nothing without me.”

The younger man bites his lip, his face turning red.

“What do you have? You have this shithole you call a country and… what? You don’t have power. That came from me. You don’t have resources, that came from me as well. You don’t have strength, you don’t have any of your own intellect,” Dream laughs again, a bitter, ugly sound. “You’re literally nothing without me.”

Sapnap remains quiet, drawing into himself. Karl places a hand on the man’s shoulder, but he pulls away sharply.

“None of you are anything,  _ anything _ , without me,” Dream says. “You forget where your power comes from. Technoblade will kill you all, like he did before.”

He pauses, looks out on the faces of old allies, old enemies. Defeat shines in their eyes.

“But I’ll be generous,” Dream says, words tinted by satisfaction. “I won’t kill you all for treason, for plotting to murder me, and I’ll help you take down Technoblade.”

Quackity huffs an incredulous breath, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Technoblade won’t be able to resist another festival. He loves those,” Dream smirks, watches Tubbo shift, hand reaching for still-healing scars. “But we’ll be ready for him.”

“How can we trust you?” Fundy asks quietly.

“How can you trust me? I don’t think that matters right now, Fundy,” Dream says, anger burning at the edge of his words. “I think what matters is that I haven’t killed you yet. That should be enough for you.”

The other man nods.

“Makes sense,” he mutters.

“I’d like to speak to the President now,” Dream says, looking over at Tubbo. Quackity lifts his head up at the word. “The  _ real _ president,” Dream adds. 

“I am a real president, asshole,” Quackity seethes. “And my country is not a shithole.”

Dream shrugs.

“If it looks like a shitthole, smells like a shitthole, then it’s a shithole, isn’t it?”

He sees the moment Quackity snaps, the moment the rage overflows, spills into a right hook, a fist that flies directly at Dream’s masked face. 

It never lands. Instead, Dream’s hand comes up to catch it, Quackity’s fist enveloped in Dream’s larger, gloved one.

There is a split second, a moment where fear flashes in Quackity’s brown eyes, before he is knocked to the ground, clutching his face.

Dream stands over him, a sudden chill in the air.

“I said you shouldn’t try, didn’t I?” Dream says coldly. “So don’t. You need me to take down Technoblade. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

He turns back to Tubbo.

“A word, please?”

Tubbo nods silently, following behind Dream as he pearls down below, into L’Manburg. Dream looks back up at El Rapids, eyes landing on George’s vague outline. He quickly turns away.

“Tubbo, look around,” he says as the boy walks beside him, down the damaged docks. A sign with the words “three days” on it stands outside of Phil’s house. Dream kicks it over. “This is what entertaining those people up there has come to. The slow destruction of your country.”

Tubbo stares at the ground, eyes dull.

“They don’t even care anymore, do they? Quackity is president of some other country, Fundy has left you, only coming back when he wants to. Meanwhile, this is what has become of your country. They think it’s a game, Tubbo.”

Dream watches the kid, who remains quiet.

“I know going after Technoblade wasn’t your plan, this time or the last time. I know you, Tubbo. I know you’re smarter than all this. So why? Why would you plan to kill me, the only person you can really trust?”

Tubbo stops in his tracks. He inhales sharply, looking out over the horizon. When he turns to face Dream again, there is anger in his eyes, in the prematures lines drawn on his face, in the tight clench of his jaw.

“Tommy is dead because of you,” he says, voice low but firm. Angry. “You’re the reason he killed himself. The reason he jumped.”

Dream smiles.

“Ah, you blame me for your own actions,” he says. “There’s a lot of that going around this server.”

“You made me exile him. You forced me to do it.”

“Nobody can make you do anything, Tubbo,” Dream says, ice in his tone. “You make your own decisions. Always.”

The boy looks away again. 

The day has quickly become overcast, heavy clouds hanging over the pair. A rising storm.

“You want to know a secret, Tubbo? You want to know something interesting? I thought Tommy was dead as well. I saw the pillar, and I thought it was over.”

Tubbo tenses, shoulders drawing up to his ears.

“But guess who I found, on a little visit to Technoblade’s base?”

Tubbo shakes his head.

“Don’t-”

“I found Tommy,” Dream says, speaking over the boy. “Well, not Tommy exactly. But I found all his belongings. I found the hole he’s living in, underneath Technoblade’s house. Technoblade even admitted it to me. Tommy is alive, and well. And he’s terrorising your country.”

“That’s not true,” Tubbo says. “I don’t believe you.”

“Oh come on,” Dream says. “Look around, Tubbo. Really look around. Does any of this look like something Technoblade would do? Be honest. Who does this all look like?”

Tubbo shakes his head.

“Say it, Tubbo. Admit it.”

Tubbo folds in on himself, arms wrapped around his stomach. His face has turned a pale shade of green. It is the moment of realization.

“Tommy is working with Technoblade. He’s working with Technoblade and together, they are going to destroy L’Manburg. He has betrayed you, Tubbo.”

“No,” Tubbo whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Tommy wouldn’t.”

“Tommy has,” Dream says, softer. “He’s left you, Tubbo. He’s not coming back. To be fair, you left him first.”

Tubbo collapses to the ground, what little composure he had melting away. 

“The festival is in three days. You need to be prepared for what’s going to happen. You need to be prepared to stop Tommy.”

“No,” Tubbo whispers, eyes still shut. 

“He will do anything for the discs, you know that. You know that’s all that matters to him anymore. Those stupid discs. He will tear this country to the ground, with the help of Technoblade of course, and he will kill anyone standing in his way, to get the discs back. Even you, Tubbo.”

A raindrop falls, hits the ground with a plop. Another follows. The storm has begun.

“I need something from you, Tubbo,” Dream says. “It’s the only way we can stop Tommy from destroying L’Manburg, from killing you.”

Tubbo looks up at him, face twisted in agony, cheeks wet with rain or tears, there is no difference.

“I need Mellohi.”

...

Thousands of blocks away, Ranboo emerges from a Nether Portal, stumbling into a foot of snow. He shivers violently, wind driven snowflakes assaulting his thin frame as he tries to orient himself, tries to remember where exactly Technoblade’s house is. It has only been a week or so since he had gone with the Butcher Army to try and kill Technoblade, but that was on a clear day, and now it is snowing so hard he can’t see an arm’s length in front of him.

He pulls out the compass, the one that was stolen from Phil on that ill-fated day, and watches as the needle whirls around, pointing at a final spot, to the north. 

With determination and not much else he wades through the snow, eyes fastened on the compass, nothing but blinding white in front of him. He doesn’t know how far there is to go. He doesn’t know if he can make it. But he has to try. The guilt of that day has weighed on him, has led to many sleepless nights questioning who exactly was in the right. 

Now he knows how to make up for it. If only he can make it.

He is completely soaked through now, his thin suit not protection enough from the brutal storm swirling around him. His fingers and toes feel as if they are chunks of ice, like he could break them off from the rest of his body. He did not think about bringing any coat with him. He had left as soon as he could, racing to the Nether Portal, not looking back.

He feels his book, pressed against his heart underneath his suit jacket, and it brings him comfort, warms him minisculely. Everything he can remember is in that book. It eases the anxiety in his stomach as he continues on, pace slowing as his limbs turn stiff, as the snow gets deeper.

Suddenly, from seemingly nowhere, a hand reaches out through the wall of white, grabbing him by the collar. His instincts tell him to fight back, but his body is so frozen he cannot move, going limp as he is dragged by the back of his suit jacket through the snow.

...

Tommy stands by the window in Technoblade’s house, watching the blizzard outside, his breath fogging up the glass. He draws an obscene image on the glass with his finger, smirking.

“Is Techno back yet?” Ghostbur asks from the kitchen.

“No, Ghostbur,” Tommy hears Phil respond. “You’ll know when he gets back because you’ll see him coming through the front door.”

Ghostbur sighs loudly.

“He’s taking a while.”

“It takes a while to build a secret tunnel.”

Ghostbur sighs again, floating over to where Tommy is standing.

“I wish I could go out there,” Ghostbur says. “Wilbur liked the snow.”

“I know he did,” Tommy says. “He liked to dump it on my head when I wasn’t looking.”

“Oh, I remember that,” Ghostbur says, smiling. “That was funny.”

“No it wasn’t, dickhead.”

The door suddenly swings open, wind howling, snowflakes dusting the floor, as Technoblade enters the house, covered in white. Tommy frowns as he enters, dragging something, or rather someone, behind him.

The someone is tall, with gangly limbs, wearing a dark suit now completely soaked, red and green eyes staring in shock.

“What is this guy doing here?” Technoblade asks as Phil jumps up from where he is sitting in the kitchen, approaching the shivering figure on the floor.

“Ranboo?” Tommy says, kneeling down next to the older boy, who is practically convulsing with cold.

“I found him wandering around out there. You think they sent him here to mess with us or something?” Techno says.

Ranboo shakes his head fervently, though that could just be the shivering.

“N-no,” he says, forcing the words between chattering teeth. “I-I’m h-here t-to h-help. G-g-gotta tell you s-s-something.”

“Help?” Phil asks, brows furrowing. 

Ranboo nods, pulling his arms around himself.

Phil looks up at Techno.

“He tried to kill me a week ago,” Techno says. “I don’t trust him.”

“I do,” Tommy says. He looks into the other boy’s eyes, sees the desperation in them. “I trust him.”

“Well that’s great, Tommy, but you weren’t here. This guy tried to execute me.”

“N-n-no,” Ranboo protests, scrunching his eyes shut. “I d-didn’t w-w-want to.”

“He needs help,” Ghostbur says. “He’s cold.”

Phil watches the trembling boy for a moment before going through one of the chests, pulling a blanket out.

“We won’t know what he wants if he can’t talk,” he says, wrapping the blanket around Ranboo’s shoulders. The boy burrows into it, drawing it tightly around himself.

“I don’t like it, and I don’t like him,” Techno says. “He tried to kill me, Phil.”

“He was one of the only people to visit when I was alone,” Tommy says. “And he stood up for me, before I was exiled. I trust him.”

It takes a few minutes before Ranboo can put together an intelligible sentence. They watch him shiver in tense silence until he is able to speak, still shaking.

“I-I thought you were dead,” is the first thing he says, looking over at Tommy. “Everyone thinks y-y-your dead.”

“Well I’m not,” Tommy says. 

Ranboo just nods, apparently taking the revelation in stride. 

“What is it you have to tell us?” Techno asks gruffly. 

Ranboo looks up at the scarred warrior, a trace of fear in his mismatched eyes.

“They know y-you’re coming to the f-festival. And they’re planning o-on killing y-you there. L’Manburg and Dream. T-together.”

Techno’s eyes flash, looking at Phil.

“What do you mean they know?”

“The s-signs. They said ‘three d-days’. That w-was you, wasn’t it?”

Techno frowns.

“Oh,” Ranboo whispers as he makes eye contact with Tommy, whose stomach drops. “It was you.”

“Tommy,” Techno growls. “What did you do?”

Tommy scrambles to his feet, a guilty smile on his face.

“Listen, Techno, I think we can talk about this,” he says, backing away from the group. 

“What did you do Tommy?”

“I just… you know… actually, if we want to toss blame around, this is all Phil’s fault!”

“What?” Phil exclaims.

“You told me I needed to scare them, so I did.”

“I didn’t tell you that. Techno, I didn’t tell him that.”

Techno has gotten dangerously close to Tommy, and now that he is backed against the wall he feels his more animal instincts kicking in, telling him to get out, to run.

“I just wanted to intimidate them a bit, get them scared so that I can get my discs back, that’s all!”

“So you put up signs announcing when we would be coming?” Techno asks, his voice rising, grabbing Tommy’s arms. 

“Well…,” Tommy thinks, but he doesn’t have any good excuses. “Yes, I guess,” he says sheepishly. 

Techno’s eyes have that murderous gleam in them, his hands tightening around Tommy’s thin arms. Tommy honestly can’t tell if he’s going to kill him or not.

“Wait, Techno,” Phil says, coming up behind him. “It’s alright.”

“How is this alright, Phil? Tommy just ruined our chance for revenge.”

“No, he didn’t,” Phil says, placing a hand on Techno’s shoulder. “They know when we’re coming, but they don’t know what we have.”

Techno freezes.

“They don’t know about the withers.”

“Yeah, Techno, they don’t know about the withers,” Tommy says, anxious for Techno to release his hold on him. “I knew that.”

“Withers?” Ranboo asks from across the room. “You have w-withers?”

“Yes, we have withers, and if you tell anyone I will kill you,” Techno says, letting go of Tommy, who rubs at his arms, which had begun to lose feeling. “If you want to help us, you’re going to help us.”

“What does that m-mean?” Ranboo asks hesitantly. 

“It means you’re going to be a spy for us. You’re close with the leadership of L’Manburg. We can use that.”

Ranboo licks his lips, shifts on the ground.

“I am s-sorry about w-what happened, with the execution a-and all,” he says. “B-but I won’t h-help you kill them.”

“Well we’re not going to  _ kill  _ them, right Techno?” Tommy says. “The withers are just for intimidation, right?” 

A seed of doubt plants itself within him, a needling of uncertainty. He watches Techno’s face as he answers, watches his brother closely. 

“Of course they are,” Techno says, but his eyes shift, not quite making eye contact.

Tommy thinks of Tubbo, thinks of what Techno did to him at the last festival. It is not hard to remember. It is an image engraved into his mind. 

Who does he hate? Who does he trust? It is all too confusing now, threads pulling him every which way. 

Techno turns away from him, moves to Phil, Ghostbur talks to Ranboo, but Tommy stands still. 

Every thread, tied to Dream or to Techno or to Tubbo, every single one leads to betrayal. No matter how painful it is to accept, he knows it is true. He was naive to believe anything else. 

He is going to make his own thread. A Tommy thread. He is going to go to the festival, and he is going to go with Techno, but he will not destroy L’Manburg, nor will he return. He will get his discs back, defeat Dream, like he was always meant to, and then he will move on, following his own thread. Leave it all behind.

Ranboo watches as Tommy’s stare glazes over, standing in the middle of the room. Ghostbur is talking to him about something, but he watches Tommy. There is something in the other boy’s stance, in his expression, that piques Ranboo’s interest. Not for the first time, he wonders what Tommy is thinking about.

Later, after he has been escorted through a tunnel stretching beneath the earth leading to Phil’s house, discreetly exiting and returning to his own home, he pulls out his book, still pressed against his heart.

He flips it open to the next available page and writes down everything that he remembers from the day. When he is done, he puts the book back, safe in his pocket. By the time he has fallen asleep, the events of the day have been reduced down to blurred images and muffled speech.

  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day before the festival. Everyone is preparing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! Sorry for the long wait, I had to let this story marinate for a bit longer and figure out what I wanted to do with it. I also just wanted to see what they were doing with the festival, and boy is it gonna be different to what I'm gonna have happen. This chapter is much more character focused with lots of POV shifts (and Sam's POV is introduced!!) and hopefully next chapter is when the action will start happening. Hope y'all enjoy!!! Comments are appreciated, and I will try to respond!!

It is a cold morning, dark and overcast, the day before the festival, when the prison is finally finished. 

“Pandora’s Vault”, as Sam has come to call it, is a towering, hulking chunk of obsidian, outlandish against a natural background. It is dark as the early morning, with heavy clouds impenetrable to the rising sun, a sight that sends shivers down his spine. Even knowing every intricate, inner working, every design detail, every corridor and every room in the prison, the sight is a fearful one. 

Or maybe it is because he is the one person who knows it all, who knows exactly what went into this building, that he is struck by a sudden unease. 

He is the only person who can put another into this building, and once they are in, he is the only person who can get them out. He knows the prison is inescapable. He knows it is death. 

It is a responsibility that has just now fully settled on his armored shoulders. 

“It looks good,” Dream says, appearing without warning beside him. It has been years since that has startled him.

“Thank you,” he responds. “It took a while.”

“It will be worth it,” Dream says. He turns to Sam, who stands just a few inches taller, the white mask tilting upwards. “You understand what I plan to do?”

Sam stares out at the prison, the vault, where he can play God, choosing life or death. He is just beginning to realize what that means.

“Yes.”

“You understand it is necessary?”

Sam nods.

“I can’t… I can’t keep watching this server tear itself apart,” he says, straightening with increasing resolve. “I remember what it was like before all of this. If this is what it takes, then I am willing to do it.”

“Good,” Dream says, nodding. “And I can expect the full support of the rest of the Badlands?”

Sam nods again, his face caught in the shadow of the prison.

“As long as the others are paid, you have our complete support.”

Dream pulls an ender pearl from his inventory.

“Then I need to go speak with Skeppy,” he says, and he is gone as soon as he had appeared.

Sam stares out for a while longer, eyes fixated on the shimmering black walls. What had he created?

He knows why he built it. He knows, logically, why it has to happen. But his stomach sinks, twists in sickening dread, the longer he stares at those imposing walls.

He hopes he is right. It is all he can do now, is hope. The rest is in Dream’s hands. 

...

The same morning, the same ominous clouds hanging low in the sky, Tommy and Ranboo follow Technoblade down one of the many tunnels he has created beneath the earth, leading to L’Manburg. Their footsteps echo through the damp underpass, colder and wetter even than outside.

Tommy’s nose shines red, his cheeks flushed. He rubs his hands together, the freezing digits numb.

“Why is it so fuckin’ cold?” he whines, rubbing at his bare arms. 

“You wouldn’t be cold if you had put on the cloak I gave you,” Techno says, voice rumbling through the passage. 

“It was ugly, I didn’t want to wear it,” Tommy says, sniffing.

“Well then that sounds like a you problem.”

“I think it looks fine,” Ranboo says, drawing his own cloak tighter around his shoulders.

“Always good to have your approval, Ranboo,” Techno says drily. He continues on at a relentless pace, his steps much heavier than normal, his jaw clenched tight. Tommy would ask his brother if he woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, but he still somewhat values his life.

“Fuckin’ slow down, man,” Tommy mutters instead, stumbling over the slick, rocky ground. He catches a small smile forming on Ranboo’s face as he slips again and scowls at the other boy. 

“It’s not funny,” he says.

“Of course not,” Ranboo replies, but the smile still remains on his face.

Techno stops abruptly at a seemingly random spot in the tunnel and Tommy crashes into his back unceremoniously.

“Hey, watch it,” he says indignantly, slipping yet again on the wet rock.

“We’re here,” Techno replies simply. 

He pulls a lever and a section of the rock wall opens up, into a cavern filled with dozens of dogs. They stare up at the small group, tails wagging and tongues lolling out of their mouths. 

“What the hell is this?” Tommy asks, looking out over the sea of dogs.

“This is the hound army,” Techno says, entering the cave. 

“What are we gonna do with them?” Ranboo asks, checking behind his shoulder before following. Tommy has noticed that Ranboo seems very on edge lately, always looking behind him, always scanning a room before entering. Today he seems more anxious than usual, constantly picking at his fingers, shifting in place.

“What do you think, Ranboo?” Techno asks, pushing through the crowd of dogs. “We’re gonna use them on L’Manburg.”

Tommy kneels down next to one of the dogs, petting at its soft fur. The dog nudges its head into his neck, attempting to lick his face. 

“Oh, fuck, get off of me,” he says, trying to push it away from him, but the dog is too big and ultimately wins the battle, slobbering all over his face and neck.

“You alright over there Tommy?” Ranboo asks, a smile in his words. He stands in another corner, arms crossed against his chest, pulling away from any sniffing, interested dogs.

“Yeah I’m fuckin’- stop it!” he shrieks as the dog continues licking him. He stumbles to his feet. “That’s fuckin’ disgusting,” he mutters, scrubbing at his face aggressively.

“I think he likes you,” Ranboo says, the dog following along at Tommy’s side as he pushes through the army of dogs, trying to distance himself. 

“Oh my god,” Tommy says, pushing the dog. “Go away!”

The dog just looks up at him, brown eyes full of excitement. It cocks its head at his words, as if trying to comprehend what he’s saying.

“I said, fuck off!” Tommy says, but the dog follows him to the one of the walls of the cavern, tail wagging aggressively. 

“You see any babies?” Techno asks from the other end of the cave, words bouncing off of the walls. 

“No,” Ranboo replies. “No babies.”

The dog at Tommy’s feet sits down in front of him, and Tommy can’t help but admit to himself that it is pretty cute. He pats its head once, to the dog’s delight. 

“How many dogs are there?” he asks.

“About three dozen,” Techno replies, eyes focused on the ground, looking for any newborn dogs. “You sure there aren’t any babies over there?”

“No,” Tommy says, still patting at the dog beneath him. 

Ranboo shakes his head, pulling back from a dog sniffing at his boots.

“Well, I brought you two here to meet the dogs so they can get your scent. You don’t want them attacking you tomorrow, do you?”

“Nope,” Ranboo says, stiffly extending an arm to one of the dogs, who licks at his palm. He grimaces, pulling away quickly. 

“This one is mine,” Tommy says. 

“Fine,” Techno responds. 

“And I’m gonna name it. I’m gonna name it… Harold.”

“I really don’t care,” Techno says, making his way back over to the entrance of the cavern. “Just make sure you are well acquainted with these dogs. Being torn to shreds is a slow, painful death.”

Ranboo swallows loudly, audible in the echoing cave.

“You don’t like dogs?” Tommy asks.

“No, not really,” Ranboo replies, mechanically petting the side of a dog brushing against his hip. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t,” Ranboo says. He turns back to the entrance, where Techno stands. “Can I go?” he asks. 

Techno nods, moving aside from the rocky doorway, which is more of a hole in the wall than a doorway.

“Ranboo, the cloak,” he says as the boy pushes past him. 

Ranboo pulls the cloak from around himself, handing it over to Techno. 

“Right,” he says. “Ok, I’m leaving now. I gotta- I’m leaving.”

Tommy watches the other boy hurry out of the cavern, echoing footsteps getting quieter and quieter until they are nothing. 

Harold follows him as he goes to stand next to Techno in the entrance. His brother’s expression is faraway, still looking out, down the tunnel where Ranboo left. Tommy doesn’t like the way the air has changed with just the two of them, hanging heavy between them.

“I’m keeping this dog,” he says loudly, trying to break the silence, trying to shake away the uneasy feeling that flutters inside of him. “All of my pets die, you know. It’s actually quite sad, when I think about it. But this one is gonna live for a while, I can tell you that.”

“Tommy,” Techno finally says, turning towards the younger boy. 

“We should get him armor. I bet he’d look sick with some diamond armor. Do they make armor for dogs?” Tommy rambles, almost believing that if he talks loud and fast enough whatever thing Techno has to tell him will be forgotten.

He doesn’t like the way Techno stands, the way his shoulders are tense, the way his fingers tap away at the hilt of his sword. He looks antsy, nervous, in a way he never is. It sets every nerve within Tommy on edge. 

“Tommy,” Techno says again, louder this time.

“What?” Tommy asks loudly, twisting his fingers in Harold’s grey fur. “What?”

“I need to tell you something.”

He doesn’t want to hear it. If he’s honest, he already knows what Techno is going to say.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you about my intentions tomorrow, at the festival.”

And Tommy can predict the next few words to leave Techno’s mouth, can hear them before they come.

“I’m planning on destroying L’Manburg tomorrow. Completely.”

Still, his stomach drops when he hears it said so plainly. The words hang in the air, as if tangible, as if he could reach out and shove them back into his brother’s mouth. 

“I’m telling you this because I… because I respect you, Tommy. As a friend. As a brother,” Techno continues. “I respect you, and so I’m telling you the truth.”

Tommy just stands in silence.

“I wanted to give you time to adjust, to realize what I’m saying is true. L’Manburg screwed you over. The government screwed you over. It’s time to end it.”

“L’Manburg is my home,” Tommy musters up, fists clenching into tight balls.

“Not anymore.”

“It’s Tubbo’s home.”

It used to be their home. It used to be their home, and Wilbur’s home too. He doesn’t know if he can ever return to L’Manburg, but he does know that he can’t destroy it. 

“You said you would help me get my discs back,” he says, staring at the opposite wall, droplets of water sliding down the smooth, grey surface.

“And I will.”

“You’ll also kill everyone there.”

“Only those stupid enough to stick around.”

Tommy shakes his head. He remembers blinding explosions, eruptions of color, Tubbo lying limp and bloodied on the podium floor. That was Techno. That was his brother. Was that the Techno he’s been with the whole time?

“Not Tubbo,” he says. 

Techno sighs.

“How many times do I have to say it, Tommy? Tubbo exiled you. He never even came to visit, did he?” Techno says.  
The words sting, the truth sitting like a stone in his stomach.

“He couldn’t visit me,” Tommy says, pushing away the thought of anything else, pushing past the growing lump in his throat. “That’s why he didn’t.”  
“Tommy-”

“He’s my friend,” Tommy says, turning to look at Technoblade with a burning gaze. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

“Ok then, what about me?” Techno asks, voice rising in frustration. “What about me, Tommy? Tubbo tried to  _ kill _ me. He attacked me in my home and tried to execute me without trial. He threatened Carl, and he arrested Phil. Does that sound just to you? Does that sound like a friend to you?”

Tommy can’t answer, shaking his head to fight the tears welling up in eyes from spilling over.

“Don’t you see? Government is the cause of all of this. Tubbo has been corrupted by the government. You wanna save him, Tommy?” Techno asks. “Then you join me.”

“You’re wrong,” Tommy says. “It’s the discs that are the cause of all of this. The discs.”

“Forget the discs Tommy!” Techno shouts, his voice echoing through the passage. “For one second, forget the discs, and think about people!”

But that’s what the discs are, aren’t they? A physical reminder of people, of friendships. If he has the discs, he has his friends. No matter that they despise him now, that they abandoned him. The discs are reminders of friendships in their purest forms, people that will never leave.

Techno sighs.

“Listen, Tommy, I’m going to destroy the place. Tomorrow. Whether you’re with me or not,” he says, much quieter now. He hesitates, shifting slightly. “I’d rather you be with me.”

Tommy ignores the statement, pushes away everything Techno has said. 

“L’Manburg is my unfinished symphony,” he says quietly. “Once I get the discs back, the melody is over.”

It isn’t a response to Techno’s proposal. He can’t look at his brother, can’t think about what he’s said. 

If he can get the discs back, he can end it. That is what he knows, that is what he latches onto, the discs, something that can never betray him, that will never change. 

His feet move on their own, down the damp tunnel, to where, he doesn’t know.

“Tommy!” Techno calls after him, but he continues on.

He feels dizzy. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Harold trails behind him, and Techno stays behind, watching as Tommy leaves.

...

In L’Manburg, Tubbo sits on Ghostbur’s crane and watches the country from above. The sky is a solid grey, heavy clouds hanging low.

He slumps against the crane, swinging his feet in the air. He should feel free, should feel like he’s floating this high up, but instead he feels the weight of the sky pressing down on his thin shoulders, feels the clouds clog his lungs, a suffocating shroud.

There is no part of him that does not ache, that doesn’t pulse with a dull pain. He hasn’t slept in what feels like weeks. He can’t remember the last time he ate. 

His eyes follow the movement of L’Manburg beneath him, dragging lethargically, his chest rises with a slow reluctance.

If he closes his eyes, in his semi-delirious state, he can almost see L’Manburg as it was, yellow and black walls touching the heavens. He can almost see Wilbur, and Tommy. 

He doesn’t want to think about Tommy. That is the last thing he wants to think about. The thought of Tommy invokes a swelling of emotions he can’t quite name, can’t quite pick apart, but one rises above the rest.

Guilt. 

“Did I do the right thing?” he asks out loud, voice a thin rasp.

“What do you mean?” asks a familiar voice. He shifts, turning slightly, and sees Ranboo standing behind him. The other boy’s presence fills him with a relief that briefly soothes the pulsing in his head.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Walking,” Ranboo responds. He picks at his nails, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “I thought you were talking to me.”

Tubbo shrugs, closing his eyes.

“I suppose I was.”

He feels Ranboo get closer, hears his knees creak as he sits down next to him.

“Was it the right choice?” he repeats. “Exiling Tommy?”

“What do you think?”

Tubbo snorts, bitterness clawing up his throat.

“Well, he’s dead now, isn’t he?” he says, the lie sour in his mouth. “The problem is gone.”

“So you think yes?”

He shakes his head, grimacing at the soreness in his neck.

“I don’t-,” he frowns, pausing. “It seemed like it, at the time.”

“But you regret it.”

Of course he does. The regret is a never ending itch beneath his skin, an agonizing burning in his chest. The regret eats away at him, withering him away until regret is all there is. 

“He would never have forgiven me, if he had survived,” he says. The holes in the docks, the signs. The promise of destruction. It’s true. Tommy hadn’t forgiven him.

Ranboo shifts next to him, brushing against his shoulder.

“I think he would,” he says softly. “I think Tommy would forgive you.”

“You think that?”

“I know that.”

“How?”

Ranboo pauses.

“I just think he would,” he finally says.

Tubbo smiles at the other boy’s sincerity. If only Ranboo knew the truth. If only he knew that Tommy was alive, but that he was gone, too far for anyone else to reach.

And it is Tubbo’s fault.

“I never visited him,” he says, an uncomfortable lump forming in his throat. “I didn’t-” he clears his throat, keeping his eyes shut. “I thought he wouldn’t want to see me.”

And he could never handle the thought of that. Of his best friend hating him. It was cowardice that kept him from that island, that kept him from visiting. He couldn’t bear the anger, the hatred, that he knew would be directed at him. And now Tommy is gone, completely lost to that anger and hatred.

“I visited him,” Ranboo says quietly. “Twice. He had a picture of you. I don’t think he ever hated you.”

Tubbo rests his head in his hands, letting that statement wash over him. Guilt burns, tears at him. He should have visited. He should have done something more. 

Ranboo doesn’t say anything, just sits beside him, biting at his nails. 

The wind has picked up, a slight breeze running through the loose fabric of his shirt. Tubbo shivers.

Tomorrow, his best friend is going to try to destroy the country they had founded together. Tomorrow, he is going to have to stop his best friend.

“What am I going to do?” he whispers. “I can’t-” he stops short, holding back the words that desperately want to spill from his lips. 

He can’t hurt Tommy. No matter what has happened between them, he doesn’t want to hurt Tommy.

“You’re doing the best you can,” Ranboo says. “That’s all you can do, is your best. Tomorrow, you will do what’s best for the people. I know you will.”

“I tried to do that before. Now look.”

“You made some mistakes, sure,” Ranboo says. “But that wasn’t all your fault. You were thrown into this mess and everyone just kind of expected you to deal with it.”

Tubbo opens his eyes, rolling his head to the side to look at Ranboo. The other boy stares back at him with an honesty that he hasn’t seen in a very long time. Something raw and more real than anything else he’s seen in the last few months. 

“I can’t trust anyone,” he says. It feels like everything is crumbling around him, everything he has built, everything he has tried to uphold. 

“You can trust me,” Ranboo says, nothing but truth in his mismatched eyes. 

“You’re on my side?”

Ranboo hesitates.

“You can trust me,” he repeats.

Tubbo nods, looking away. 

It is the most valuable thing on this server, more than any country, any disc. Trust. Slivers of priceless trust. He takes this one, this last hope of trust, and he holds it close to his ragged heart.

…

It is a cold evening, lowering sun bleeding across the horizon into an even colder night. It seems the entire server sleeps on edge, apprehensive of the day to come.

One man stands in the empty community house, the symbol of a peace never quite settled into the bones of the land. A peace short lived, like a flare in the night sky. 

He stands, netherite a shining purple, mask a glowing ivory, placing stack of tnt after stack of tnt on the floor, slowly, methodically. 

The house is far enough out that he doesn’t worry about anyone seeing, anyone hearing. 

He lingers in the doorway after the tnt has been set, the only indication of emotion in his efficient movements. With a final pat to the door frame he detonates the tnt, racing across the wooden platform stretching across the lake for land on the opposite end.

In the explosion of light, illuminating the surrounding land, he catches sight of another person, standing in shadow.

The person faces him. He can’t see their face, but he recognizes the lanky frame, the suit and tie.

With a scowl he marches towards them, sword unsheathed, a grim determination to make sure that no one knows exactly what happened here tonight.

…

In a room lined with obsidian, deep beneath the earth, Ranboo wakes with a start, face pressed against the cold, hard floor. 

For a moment, he feels nothing, shifting slightly on the floor, before a spike of adrenaline courses through his body. He sits up quickly, vision greying along the edges, adjusting to the dark of the room. 

The unease, the anxiety that has been building over the past few days comes to a head as he breaks from the fog of almost-sleep.

He doesn’t know where he is. 

That is what he realizes after a few seconds of staring incomprehensibly at the opposing wall, glimmering deep black with a glint of purple. 

He doesn’t know where he is.

“Oh god,” he whispers, scrambling to his feet, heart racing. “Oh god, oh god.”

How did he end up here? Where is here? 

Fear blurs his already spotty memory. He remembers Tommy and Techno and dogs. He remembers a tunnel. He remembers Tubbo. He remembers…. 

He fumbles with his suit jacket, feeling along the inside pocket, where his book should be.

Trembling hands find nothing. 

Tears fill his eyes as he rips the jacket off, frantically shaking it, hoping against hope that he somehow missed the book, somehow didn’t feel it. 

“Please, please, oh god,” he whispers desperately, continuing to shake the jacket even though he knows by now, logically, that the book is not there. 

How could he have misplaced it? He never leaves it anywhere other than his pocket.

“Just remember,” he says, hands gravitating towards the sides of his head, squeezing hard, as if that could force the memories to appear. “Just remember!” he shouts, demanding his brain to work, just for one moment.

He remembers Tommy and Techno and dogs. He remembers a tunnel. He remembers Tubbo. He remembers… he remembers… he can’t remember anything after that. He can’t remember anything without the book. He needs the book. Oh god, he needs the book.

“What am I going to do?” he asks the walls, pacing back and forth, a cold, tingling sensation filling his limbs. “What am I going to do?”

Everything he remembers is in that book. Tommy and Techno and Phil and everything. 

“Oh, I’m screwed,” he says, a sudden wave of nausea pulling him to his knees. Bile burns the back of his throat as he folds in on himself, forehead resting against the cold floor. “Please, please just think, just think.”

He remembers Tommy and Techno and dogs. He remembers a tunnel. He remembers Tubbo. He remembers… he remembers… 

Fire. 

He smells it, smells the fire. He sniffs at his shirt collar. The smoke is embedded in his clothes. 

“Fire?” he whispers. “When were you around a fire?”

His head aches from the strain, but he screws his eyes shut and forces himself to think.

“Just remember. Just remember.”

He remembers Tommy and Techno and dogs. He remembers a tunnel. He remembers Tubbo. He remembers fire. He remembers… he remembers…

He can’t concentrate around the waves of fear, the frantic fluttering of his heart. He sees the flames, bright against a black sky, and that is it. A flash, and then it is gone. 

“No!” he screams, slamming a hand against the ground, the stinging in his palm ignored, left behind in the midst of the crippling panic. 

One question circles through his mind, louder than his panicked thoughts, over and over again.

_ Where is the book? _

...

Miles away, standing in the middle of what was once the community house, now just a blackened, crumbling husk, Dream flips through Ranboo’s book and reads every word scrawled on the white pages. When he is done, he stands for a bit longer in the ruins, windblown ash greying his armor, and he thinks.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The festival part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! welcome back. ok, so this was going to be longer but i am sick and the brain juices aren't really flowing so i've divided the festival into two chapters so that the next part can be as good as i want it to be. that is also my excuse if anything sounds weird in this chapter lol. i hope y'all enjoy! leave a comment and i will try to respond!

Dream shows the L’Manburgian cabinet the charred remains of the community house the next morning, marching down the Prime Path with an urgency that spurs the group onwards, movements slow and disoriented from the early awakening. 

He doesn’t say what he has to show them, just continues on until they arrive, the sight evoking shocked gasps.

“Shit,” Quackity whispers, the smoldering wreckage reflected in his brown eyes. “Fuck.”

“How- how-” Fundy stutters, mouth left hanging wide open. 

The house is nothing now, just a pockmarked foundation in the middle of a lake, debris floating aimlessly in the muddled water. Smoke still rises from certain areas, thin strands almost invisible against the grey sky. 

“I got here just a few minutes ago,” Dream says softly. “It was too late.”

The younger men stare out at the sobering sight, speechless. 

Dream would be lying if he said he didn’t feel anything as he too looked out on the ruins. If there was anyplace left on this server that he felt truly safe, that reserved a last, small piece of sentimentality in his heart, it would have been that house, built with his own hands, constructed in a time that felt more like a dream than reality. 

He remembers those days with a crippling sort of nostalgia, a fatal kind of bittersweetness.

He lowers his gaze, fighting the tightening of his throat. And there is that fire, feeding off the dying one still weakly burning within the house, that anger that swells in him, that fuels him on.

What is weakness? It is something you can’t give up. 

So he has given it up, the last thing he could possibly have, has let it crumble to smoldering embers and burning ash. 

He looks at the others, their expressions turned hard. There is an anger in their eyes that is no longer directed at him. He can take that, he can shape that, he can use that. 

Only Ranboo stares at the house with a plain sorrow on his face. There is no violence there, no malice. Only sadness. 

“Who would do this?” Ranboo asks, sounding as if he is on the verge of tears.

Dream smiles to himself, turning away from the group. It is amusing to see the confusion on Ranboo’s face, knowing what he does now. The book lies in his possession, just an inventory away. 

That is a revelation for later.

“Who do you think?” Tubbo asks viciously, Ranboo flinching slightly from the venom in the younger boy’s tone.

“Fucking Technoblade,” Quackity growls, still staring out at the ruined house. “That motherfucker.”

“But why?” Ranboo asks. “Why would he do this?”

“Because that house stood for peace,” Dream says, turning back towards the group. “I built that house. I built it way back when the server was still new, and I built it in the name of unity. Now look at it.”

Shattered glass litters the walkway. Splintered wood crumbles with echoing moans. He remembers placing those glass panes in window frames, he remembers cutting down that wood and putting up those charred walls.

“Look at it,” he repeats, shaking his head, fighting to keep the strange, rising emotions from choking his voice. The others must hear something anyways, looking at him now as if they are seeing something new. “Technoblade will tear us apart if we let him. It’s us versus him. No bullshit, no secret armies, no going behind my back,” he tilts his head pointedly at Quackity, who looks away guiltily. “Peace is all I’ve ever wanted. Technoblade is what stands in our way of peace.”

For once, no one argues. No one shouts back. The silence is a relief. It’s a sign that this was worth it. 

“I’ll lead the attack on Technoblade today,” he says. “You don’t do anything unless I say. Understand?”

Fundy, Quackity and Tubbo nod. Ranboo just looks at the ground.

Dream sighs, turning to go. He brushes past Tubbo, leaning in.

“You know who really did this,” he whispers, loud enough only for Tubbo to hear. 

The boy nods stiffly, a jerk of the head. 

Dream pats his shoulder once, then continues on. 

And it  _ was _ Tommy who had burned down the house, who had destroyed any opportunities for peace. With every fiery word, with every disruptive action, forcing Dream’s hand, forcing him to respond with violence in kind. 

It is Tommy’s fault things have gotten to this point. Tommy’s fault that people hate Dream, that they constantly seek out ways to undermine him, to question him. 

It is Tommy’s fault he can’t sleep at night, Tommy’s fault that the only allies he has are those he is paying. Tommy’s fault. 

He pulls the boy’s beloved discs from his inventory, twirling them in his hands.

It was fear that made him turn to Punz, confess the feeble beginnings of a plan to the mercenary, of making people hate him and running away. 

He doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care if they will hate him. He wants his server back. 

The discs shine, reflecting the pallid white of his mask back at him. 

There’s only a few people standing in his way. By the end of the day they will be gone.

He makes his way down the path, waiting for the familiar steps walking in pace beside him. 

“I need you to do something for me,” he says, turning towards the mercenary, pulling two potions of invisibility from his inventory.

Punz raises his eyebrows in a silent question. 

“I’ll tell you when.”

…

The festival begins with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Practically the whole server is gathered on the docks of L’Manburg, the Badlands, the members of El Rapids, the greater Dream SMP, but the energy is off. 

It’s too quiet, too tense. Even those who do not know about what is to happen today seem to feel it, the electric nervousness in the air. 

Tubbo moves among the people, doing his best to be the optimistic face of L’Manburg, the strong and capable president. He smooths his shirt down every few seconds, nodding and smiling at the gathered guests. The smile feels forced, like he’s stretching it too wide, and it is a relief when he can break away from a conversation, drop the act. 

He can’t stop thinking about the community house. About the scorched bones of what was once one of the oldest and most revered structures on the server. Seeing it leveled to lingering ash and debris, knowing that Tommy was the one who had done it, strikes something deep within him. 

Just yesterday, he wasn’t sure he could defend L’Manburg from Tommy. Wasn’t sure if he could fight his own best friend. Now he knows it isn’t an option. Tommy hasn’t given him a choice.

Just like always. Always making rash decisions, never thinking of the consequences, leaving Tubbo to clean up behind him. 

It makes him so unbelievably angry, an anger that is uncomfortable, that burns beneath the skin and steals the air from his lungs. He chokes on it, this uncontrollable rage. He pulls away from the crowd, stumbling down an alleyway between two houses, loosening his tie that now feels too tight. 

The air is cold. It fogs with every labored breath.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Pulling away sharply, he whips around to face his assailant.

It is only Niki. She peers down on him with open concern.

“Are you alright Tubbo?” she asks.

Tubbo nods and plasters the stale smile back onto his face.

“Yep,” he says, infusing as much enthusiasm into his voice as he can muster. “I’m fine.”

Niki doesn’t seem convinced.

“You look really pale,” she says. “I can get you some water if you want.”

“No, I don’t need anything,” Tubbo says. “Really, I’m okay.”

Niki nods, stepping away. She doesn’t leave the alleyway like Tubbo wants her to, just stands there chewing at her bottom lip, adjusting the straps of her overalls. 

“Are you gonna go back to the festival?” Tubbo finally asks, a hint of frustration peeking through his tone.

“Yeah, I am,” Niki says. “I just…” she clears her throat. “I just haven’t talked to you in a while.”

She pauses, continuing to worry away at her bottom lip.

“I’m sorry about Tommy. I understand it must be really hard for you.”

It’s not fair that he should feel such anger at her words. He knows she is just trying to be nice, but he doesn’t want to hear about Tommy, doesn’t want to think about him, doesn’t want to see him ever again. He is filled with the sudden urge to hit the girl in front of him for saying that to him, for not being able to understand.

He lowers his head instead, nodding.

“Thanks,” he mutters, his nails digging into the palms of his hands.

“If you ever want to talk-”

“I don’t,” Tubbo says harshly, interrupting her. “I don’t need to talk.”

“Okay,” Niki says. “Well if you ever want to visit Dry Waters, you’re welcome. It’s really nice.”

It must be nice, being able to leave. 

“I need to go back,” Tubbo says. He nods at the docks, where everyone else is. “I gotta talk to everyone and… yeah.”

“Oh, right,” Niki says, and his heart twinges at the disappointment in her tone. 

It’s true, they haven’t talked in a while. It feels like lifetimes ago. But he is not the boy she would have known then. Conversation feels useless.

“Niki, you coming? Fundy has some games for us apparently.” Puffy says with a smile that shrinks a bit when she sees the grim expressions on Tubbo and Niki’s faces. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” Tubbo says, already exasperated by the question.

“You can join us, if you want,” Puffy adds.

Tubbo shakes his head.

“No thanks, I gotta…,” he gestures vaguely. “Talk to people and stuff.”

Puffy nods, taking Niki by the hand.

“Ok, well if you change your mind, you’re always welcome.”

“I’ll see you around, Tubbo,” Niki says. She gives him a small smile before following Puffy out of the alley.

He stands for a few minutes more, staring at the opposing wall, before returning to the festivities, pushing through the people, no longer forcing a smile onto his face.

He catches sight of Dream on the outskirts of the crowd, the white mask rising above the sea of people. He hasn’t been told Dream’s plan, only that he should continue on with the festival as it was planned. It puts him more on edge. That, and the fact that Tommy and Technoblade haven’t made an appearance yet. 

He catches himself jumping at loud noises, loud laughter, sees Quackity and Fundy tense up as well from where they stand, watching a group of the festival goers playing one of their games. It looks like a variation of ring toss, which Sapnap and Karl are getting way too into. It would be funny if Tubbo had any humor left in him.

He hasn’t seen Ranboo since this morning, but he figures he’s somewhere around here, hiding from the crowd. The taller boy has been jumpy lately, especially since seeing the burnt community house. 

Tubbo sticks to the edges of the crowd, smoothing his shirt reflexively, and he watches.

...

It feels fitting that the weather is still dreary, heavy and oppressive, as Tommy watches the festival unfold from his hiding spot, crouched behind a barrel. Technically he doesn’t need to hide behind the barrel, having drinken an invisibility potion, but being around all these people twists his stomach into knots.

Techno is here somewhere, he knows. He doesn’t know where. Tommy hadn’t returned to his house last night, wandering around the forests surrounding the SMP lands until he had collapsed, exhausted, on the forest floor with Harold by his side, the heaviest sleep he’d had in a while. He’d had to leave Harold behind in the forest so as not to risk him dying, but he finds himself missing the dog’s calming presence, especially as he thinks about what he’s going to do next.

He has a plan. It is a flimsy plan, but it is better than no plan at all. 

Peering up from the barrel, he spots Tubbo making his way through the crowd. He gets up quickly, knees popping, hurrying down the wooden platform. Tubbo sticks to the edges of the crowd and so does Tommy, careful not to run into anyone and alert them of his presence. 

He tries not to linger on the passing faces, the old friends, the old enemies, so close now he could reach out and touch them. It is strange to be back in L’Manburg. The wooden docks of New L’Manburg aren’t quite home, but he still feels attached to the piece of land, still drawn to it. Being back but not being back at the same time, being hated by everyone here, makes him feel slightly sick. 

He tries to ignore it, focusing on Tubbo, who moves stiffly, like a puppet being pulled along by its master.

Eret passes by, and Tommy’s tunnel vision almost sends him crashing straight into the king. He corrects himself, dancing on his toes, squeezing past the regal man. 

He finally gets close enough, inches from Tubbo, reaching out and grasping at his sleeve. Tubbo turns, confusion creasing his brow, and Tommy uses that moment of hesitation to grab onto Tubbo’s arm, pulling him into the nearest house. Tubbo yelps, pushing against Tommy until he lets go. The older boy stumbles across the room from the force of his shove.

“What the hell?” Tubbo exclaims, rubbing at his arm like he’s been burned. His eyes move around the space, trying to locate where exactly his invisible captor is. “Who’s there?”

Despite reassuring himself that he had a plan, Tommy had not in fact done much of any planning. This is as far as he had gotten in his head, and now that he is here, in person, in front of Tubbo, he doesn’t know what to say.

“Hello?” Tubbo asks the air. He doesn’t seem particularly worried, just exasperated.

He looks different. Tired. Grey. Like the life has been sucked out of him. 

Tubbo pauses, eyes narrowing.

“Tommy?” 

Tommy inhales sharply. 

“Tommy. Where are you?” 

The words sound accusatory, spoken in a low voice. 

“Tommy, I’m serious.”

He looks it. Tubbo looks more serious than Tommy has ever seen. His mouth is set in a grim line, his eyes burn with an intensity Tommy has only seen once before, the day he was exiled.

Without warning the tips of his fingers come into view, then his forearms, his shoulders and neck, color and shape and form spreading until he stands, fully visible, in front of Tubbo. He hadn’t checked how long he still had left with the invisibility potion. He freezes, unable to reach for another one.

The two stand, feet apart, but on opposite sides of what feels like an echoing expanse stretching beneath them. Neither moves. Neither speaks. They stand, staring at each other for what feels like eternity, waiting for the other to take the step, to crack the ice between them.

Tommy takes a tentative step forward. Tubbo backs away.

“Don’t come near me,” he says harshly. Tommy freezes where he is. “You’re an enemy to the state,” he continues coldly. “I’m going to have to inform Dream that you’re here.”

“What?” Tommy whispers, shivering involuntarily at the name. “Don’t- please don’t do that.”

“You’re a terrorist Tommy. I know why you’re here.”

“Tubbo, just listen to me,” Tommy says. “I just need you to listen to me, please.”

“I’m not going to listen to you,” Tubbo spits out. “You’ve been working with Technoblade, a traitor and a war criminal. You have betrayed L’Manburg. I won’t listen to a traitor.”

“What do you think I’m here to do, Tubbo?”

“You weren’t exactly subtle, Tommy. I saw the signs and the holes you left here. I saw the community house.”

“The community house?” Tommy asks. “What are you talking about?”

That seems to snap something in Tubbo. The other boy’s face goes completely white and he makes a noise, something in between a snarl or a growl. With a speed Tommy is not expecting Tubbo grabs him, shoving him up against the wall. He shakes with a rage that scares Tommy.

“Stop lying! Stop playing dumb!” Tubbo shouts. “You burnt down the fucking community house! Admit it! Just admit it!”

“I didn’t, please, Tubbo, I didn’t,” Tommy babbles, eyes wide. “Just trust me, Tubbo, I didn’t.”

“Trust you? Trust you?” Tubbo shrieks. He laughs, but it is a frightening sound, almost hysterical. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says softly, shifting in Tubbo’s grasp. The older boy’s nails dig into his arms painfully. “Trust me.”

“I did trust you! And you went and betrayed my trust!” he says, spittle flying. “I trusted you,” he continues, thrusting a finger into Tommy’s thin chest. “More than you ever trusted me!”

“That’s not true,” Tommy says, indignation slowly growing. 

“You never listen to me! You never just fucking think! And you just expect me to go along with it, like I’m your fucking dog! You’re a shitty friend!”

“Are you being serious?” Tommy says, tone matching Tubbo’s, a righteous anger fueling him on. “You fuckin’ exiled me! You left me, alone with Dream! Do you even know what he did to me, Tubbo? Do you?”   


Tubbo looks away, slumping slightly. 

“No,” he admits. “No, I don’t.”

“He- he made me- I-” 

How can he even put it into words? How can he explain what Dream had done to him? He doesn’t fully understand it himself. 

Even now, even after being away from the man for a while now, there is that magnetic pull, that string that tethers him back to the masked man. It makes him sick.

Tommy shakes his head.

“And now you’re fuckin’ working with him?”

“He respects me,” Tubbo says. “He respects L’Manburg.”

Tommy snorts at that.

“He does!” Tubbo says, voice rising again. “He respects L’Manburg more than you do! You’re the one running around, blowing shit up with Technoblade!”

“Well that was- that was for a good reason!”

“What reason? What good reason could you possibly have for attacking and terrorizing L’Manburg?”

Tommy takes a breath. He shifts in Tubbo’s hold, clearing his throat.

“I came here for the discs, Tubbo,” he says. “I don’t know where Technoblade is, honest. I don’t want to destroy L’Manburg.”

“The discs,” Tubbo says slowly, pulling away from Tommy. The ice is back in his tone.

“Yes, the discs.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”   


“Why is it always the discs?”

Tommy looks at the other boy, confusion creasing his brow.

“Because that’s what this is all about,” he says. “It’s all about the discs.”

Tubbo nods.

“Of course it is. It’s all about the discs.”

“Yes, it is,” Tommy says with a creeping unease. “If I have the discs then Dream has nothing on us.”

“You mean on you.”

“What are you talking about?”   


“If you have all the discs, Dream has nothing on  _ you.  _ Not us.”

Tommy frowns.

“Some of us care about other things. About things that actually matter.”

Selfish, Tubbo had called him the last time he had seen him. This isn’t selfishness. This is what will save them all. 

“Tubbo, I need the disc that you have,” he says slowly. 

“I don’t have it.”

“Well, can’t we just get it from your enderchest?”

“I don’t have it Tommy.”

Tommy’s breathing has become heavier. He has begun to lose feeling in his fingers. He swallows.

“What do you mean, you don’t have it?”

Tubbo looks at him then, and Tommy swears he sees a manic kind of glee in the other boy’s brown eyes.

“I gave it to Dream.”

“You-what?”

“I gave the disc to Dream.”

It is strange, how a moment can be a thousand, how a second can splinter into a million more. Those words shatter the scene in front of Tommy into shards of glass, raining down on his shoulders. 

He remembers the first skirmishes on the server, the premonitions of bloodier fights to come. The discs, passed from fumbling hands to fumbling hands.

He remembers the war for independence, giving up a disc for something more than himself. 

He remembers the war to reclaim L’Manburg, holding tight to those discs, entrusting Tubbo with one.

“They don’t mean anything,” Tubbo says. “They’re worthless.”

But if the discs don’t mean anything, then none of this does.

“How can you let discs dictate the lives of dozens of other people? Of an entire nation? You’re a danger to everyone,” Tubbo says. “I am tired of being dragged into your meaningless fights!”

Tommy is tired of being told he is selfish. Tired of not being allowed to have one goddamn thing without it being stripped away from him, being told he deserves it.

“They’re not worthless,” he says, the words slow coming, dragged out of his mouth by a distant horror. He feels disconnected from his body, like he is watching from outside of himself. “Those discs- those discs are not worthless.”

“Yes, they are!”

“Those discs,” he hears himself say, the anger building until it seeps from every pore, the betrayal burning hot in his chest. “Those discs are worth more than you ever were!”

He launches himself at Tubbo then, screaming as he does, the hurt twisting into a crazed, primal rage, throwing Tubbo against the door with a thud and then a resounding crack as the door swings open with the force. 

He doesn’t even feel it as they both tumble down the stairs leading from the doorway of the house, onto the dock below. He is blinded by red, deafened by a buzzing in his ears.

The two boys roll around on the wooden platform, fake snow sticking to their clothes and hair, both desperately trying to gain the upperhand. There is nothing measured in their movements, no grace behind their attacks. They hit and claw and bite, tearing at each other with an unchecked aggression.

Blood spills from their noses, slicking their hands, staining the oak beneath them. Still, they do not stop, screaming nonsense as they continue hitting each other.

What they do not see is the group surrounding them, a shocked silence hanging in the air, the entire server watching as the president of L’Manburg and the boy they had all thought to be dead fight tooth and nail. 

“Oh my god,” someone whispers, and then Quackity rushes forward, pulling a writhing Tubbo away as Jack attempts to hold a screaming, incoherent Tommy back. 

“Tubbo, calm down,” Quackity exclaims, shock written all over his face, holding a struggling Tubbo. “Tubbo, Jesus Christ, calm down!”

The boy president gasps, eyes wide, clawing at his tie. Blood is streaked across his face, his knuckles cracked and bleeding. Tommy is not much better, sporting a split lip and a darkening bruise on his left cheekbone. Fundy has joined Jack in holding him down, but both boys seem to be settling down now, slumping in the arms of those holding them back.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Jack mutters, repeating the words over and over as he tightens his arms across Tommy’s chest. “Holy shit.”

“Well, would you look who it is?”

The entire crowd shifts, turning towards the owner of the smooth, honey laden voice. Dream steps through the crowd, easily passing through the gathered people, who lower their heads as he passes by.

“Dream,” Tubbo says, pulling away from Quackity and smoothing his shirt. “I- I found him and he just attacked me-”

Dream holds up a hand and Tubbo stops abruptly.

“That’s alright Tubbo, I can gather what happened,” he says, crouching next to Tommy, who is still being restrained by Jack and Fundy. Tommy flinches as Dream lowers to his level, squirming in his captors’ grasps. 

“How is he alive?” Jack asks. “You- he’s supposed to be dead.”

“I thought he was dead, too,” Dream says, too casual, too nonchalant. “Turns out he escaped his exile, ran away to Technoblade.”

“You knew he was alive?” Quackity asks.

“Yes,” Dream replies simply. 

“And you didn’t say anything?”   


Dream sighs.

“Why would I?”

“Because that’s pretty important information-”

“Look, do you want to be mad at me? Or do you want to get mad at the guy who’s been terrorizing your country for the last week?”

Quackity scowls, turning away.

“I’m not sure if any of you noticed,” Dream continues, turning to face the assembled crowd. “But the community house is gone. Blown up.”

That gets a reaction out of the group, exclamations of surprise, shock.

“Are you kidding?” Bad asks.

“Why would I kid about something like that?” Dream responds. “The community house is gone. You want to tell them who did it, Tommy?”   


The boy is a pale shade of green, blood a bright crimson against his pallid skin. He shakes his head desperately, but can’t muster up any words. Dream’s presence sucks the air from his lungs, the words from his lips.

“Tommy?” Niki asks softly. Everyone watches him. 

“I- I didn’t,” is the only thing he can choke up.

“Who else, then?” Dream asks. “Who else has been determined to stir up the most trouble on this server, who else likes to incite violence and war?”

No one rises to his defense. The members of the server look down on Tommy. He scans the faces in a panic, hoping to find a hint of understanding, of disbelief, but there is none. 

Dream turns to look at him, a mocking smile peering down at him. 

“It’s over Tommy,” he says quietly. 

A sudden booming explosion rocks the country, a hot and ravenous fire racing across the wooden docks. It seems the entire country shakes with the force of the explosion, several people sent flying across the platforms, thrown against the houses, into the water below.

Dream turns towards the explosion, movements sharp, and Tommy feels Fundy and Jack’s grips on him loosen. With a boost of adrenaline, he shoves away from them, scrambling to his feet as they shout in surprise.

Another explosion destroys the podium, wooden shards and pieces of debris raining down on him as he takes off, blindly pushing through the people as every instinct in him tells him to get the hell out of L’Manburg. 

Smoke clouds his vision and screaming fills his ears. He doesn’t know where he’s going. The explosions send his heart racing, memories of other explosions still too close.

Someone pushes past him, sending him stumbling to the side.

His eyes stream.

His lungs ache.

He collapses somewhere on the docks, holding his ringing ears.

There is screaming.

There is laughter.

He closes his eyes and wills it all away.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The festival, part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo. i have been grinding at this chapter for like a week now and i don't think it's perfect but then again it probably never will be so i'm just going to post it now before i overthink it for another week. writing action isn't really my thing so i hope it sounds good and that y'all enjoy. thank you for reading and as always, comments are loved and appreciated!

The first explosion that rattles the wooden docks of L’Manburg does not come as a very big surprise to Dream. 

He hadn’t known when exactly Technoblade would make his grand appearance, but he had known it was an inevitability. After finding Tommy, it was only a matter of moments. 

And so the explosion, though a bit startling, is nothing unexpected.

He is on his feet in a second, axe in one hand, shield in the other, turning towards the direction of the big boom. The people around him scatter in a panic, voices rising in alarm, but he stands perfectly still amidst the expanding cloud of smoke, watching. 

And there it is, right as the podium is blown to bits, movement in the far left corner, on top of one of the houses on the hill L’Manburg is backed up onto. 

He raises his shield to protect himself from the fiery debris, looking over to where he left Tommy, who is now gone, Jack and Fundy scrambling to their feet with shouts. Doesn’t matter. He knows the kid won’t go far, not now that Dream has all the discs. 

“What’s going on?” Jack shouts, spinning around to face Dream.

“It’s fucking Technoblade,” Fundy responds before Dream can say anything, his face white as a sheet. “Oh god, oh god.”

“What do we do?” Jack asks. He sways on his feet, like he’s going to be sick.

“Go clear people out,” Dream says, pushing the two away from him, towards the wrecked area of L’Manburg. 

Jack pushes against him, pulling away from his grip desperately.

“I’m not going over there,” he protests. Dark smoke billows out from the podium, distant cries rising with it. 

Dream grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulling him in close.

“You’ll do what I fucking say,” he says menacingly. 

Jack swallows, blinking hard. 

“What if- I could die,” Jack says, squirming in his grip. “I don’t want to die.”

“I could just kill you right now if you’d prefer,” Dream says. 

Jack shakes his head violently, eyes wide.

“Don’t be a coward, Jack,” Dream says, lowering him back to the ground. “You want to be a coward?”

“No.”

Dream grabs him and Fundy by the shoulders, shoving them forward.

“Then get going. And keep an eye out for Tommy. I really should just kill you now for letting him get away.”

Fundy and Jack stumble away and Dream quickly pulls his netherite armor from his inventory, putting it on with a practiced swiftness. It is more than just a physical protection, he feels a surge of energy, of power, once the armor is on.

The mask protects his eyes from the stinging smoke as he pushes his way through the panicked crowd. 

He catches sight of Phil, standing in the window of his house. The man moves away from the window when he sees Dream watching him.

Another explosion destroys the front of one of the houses, glass and wood turned deadly shrapnel as they fly through the air. The blast nearly knocks him off his feet, hot air hitting him like a wall. 

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” he hears Quackity shout at him, emerging from the smoke. 

“Give me a second,” Dream responds calmly, searching through the smoke.

“What are you fucking talking about? We’re being attacked, what’s the fucking plan?”

“Go find Tommy,” Dream says dismissively. “Keep him contained. Make sure he’s not doing anything.”

“That’s it? Technoblade is fucking us up!”

A couple barrels to the left explode in a colorful blast, screeching fireworks nearly deafening. Quackity ducks and Dream raises his shield, protecting the both of them.

“Go find Tommy,” he repeats. 

Quackity scrambles to his feet unsteadily. He nods, but something dangerous shines in his eyes.

Dream grabs his arm before he can go.

“Stay away from Technoblade,” he says. 

Quackity smiles, all sharp teeth.

“Of course,” he says before taking off into the shroud of acrid smoke.

Dream shakes his head, his ringing ears protesting at the movement. If Quackity wants to die, that’s his own problem. 

He finally finds what he is looking for, spotting Punz helping a bloodied Tubbo to his feet. He rushes forward.

“What’s going on?” Punz asks, pulling Tubbo to his feet. The boy doesn’t look totally present, a dazed look in his eyes.

Dream pulls Punz away, ducking behind a few barrels for the minimal coverage they grant. 

“I need you to do that thing for me,” he says, and then he explains the plan, flinching at the sound of another explosion nearby.

“You got that?” Dream asks once he is done outlining the instructions.

Punz just nods. Loyal, true Punz. Sometimes Dream actually believes that the man would still be on his side even if he weren’t paying him. 

The mercenary rises to his feet, hurrying off.

Dream watches him go and then stands, drawing out his crossbow, staring up at where the last hint of movement from Technoblade was. 

Ash and dust swirl through the air, settling on his shoulders, his dirty blonde hair. Amidst the smoke, darkening figures move, confusion and panic pulling them one way, and then another. There is constant shouting, name calling, cries for help. He listens to none of it. His eyes remain fastened on the spot in the distance, leveling the crossbow with his eyeline. The wind blows tendrils of smoke his way, briefly inhibiting his sight.

The smoke clears for a second.

A flash of pink on the roof and he pulls the trigger, an action done without conscious thought, his finger twitching reflexively. 

The arrow cuts through the rising smoke, embedding itself in the side of the house. Technoblade has already ducked out of sight.

He keeps the crossbow up, waiting for the next attempt, hands perfectly steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

A fire rages nearby, eating away at one of the houses. Someone rushes to put it out, he can see the movement in his peripheral vision. 

And again, a flash of pink against the dark oak. He fires again, though this time the arrow sticks itself in a shield. 

The shield disappears from sight, and then Technoblade rises to his full height, purple armor shining against a grey sky, cloak billowing out behind him.

“Technoblade!” Dream calls out to him, voice rising above any other. It seems everything else dies down with the sound of his voice. He can make out a few people through the smoke, peering up at the figure above.

The anarchist tilts his head to the side, barely an acknowledgement. 

“Why don’t you come on down here?” Dream shouts up at him. “These L’Manburgians know how to throw a festival!”

He pulls an axe out of his inventory, gives it a good swing.

“Are you scared or something?” he asks, hidden mouth stretched into a smirk.

Technoblade shifts, says something. The words get carried away by the wind, too quiet for Dream to hear.

“Didn’t catch that!” he shouts.

“I said,” Technoblade says, louder this time. “I’m waiting.”

Dream adjusts his hold on the handle of his axe. This is one of those moments he is glad he wears a mask, his face twisted in confusion.

“What?”

“I’m waiting.”

Dream doesn’t get the chance to ask what exactly he’s waiting for. There is a sudden eruption of noise, a cacophony of barking and snarling and eager paws rushing across the wood. 

“I was waiting for that,” he hears as a dog the size of a grown man tackles him to the ground, sharp teeth centimeters from his exposed neck. “I apologize for the delay.”

...

The dogs were supposed to come out earlier, as per Techno’s plan, but Ranboo was having an off day. Waking up in a bunker-like room that he didn’t remember falling asleep in and discovering that his memory book was missing was not a pleasant way to start the day, and it had sent him into a desperate frenzy. To be honest, the frenzy isn’t over.

Technoblade had found him wandering in the snow after he somehow managed to get himself out of the hole, which, to neither his or Technoblade’s surprise, he doesn’t remember very well.

He was able to remember something about snow, something about Technoblade, and after a few minutes of trekking around near Technoblade’s house the man had found him and brought him in.

And now he’s here, in the tunnels beneath L’Manburg, releasing a bunch of dogs because Technoblade told him to.

“Oh, I don’t like dogs,” he whispers to himself as the dogs race past him, down the tunnel and out into the streets of L’Manburg. “I really don’t like dogs,” he says louder, shrinking against the wall when a dog brushes against his side.

Cold winter air raises the hair on his neck and makes him shiver in his thin suit. 

The pocket pressed against his chest is noticeably empty.

His head pounds, confusion beating against his skull.

He hasn’t seen Tommy, or Tubbo or Phil. Technoblade was a familiar face, and the relief he had felt when the man had found him was immeasurable, but now he wants to find his other friends. Unease swells up within him, and the need to see them, make sure they are okay, is overwhelming.

He wraps his arms around himself and follows the last dog out of the passage, into a fiery L’Manburg.

...

Dream hears loud laughter as he wrestles with the dog on top of him, the weight of the animal crushing the air from his lungs. Its teeth snap dangerously close to his throat, saliva dripping onto his mask.

He grabs its snout, wrapping his gloved hands around it with a vice grip as the dog flings its head back and forth, trying to dismantle his hold. The dog is a terrifying sight from above, blue eyes wild and rabid, snarling viciously. 

He knows that every second he is distracted by this dog is a second he isn’t watching Technoblade, but he can’t afford to look away from the animal so close to his neck.

With a grunt, he kicks out at the dog’s chest, letting go of its snout and rolling on top of it. He whips out an arrow, plunging it into its heart. The dog struggles for a moment longer, whining, and then settles, eyes glazing over.

Dream’s chest heaves, but there is no time to breathe.

There are dozens of other dogs stalking around the country, slipping in and out of the smoke. From the echoing snarls and screams, he can guess that others are encountering the dogs as well. 

Another explosion in the distance sends him scrambling to his feet, breathing heavily. He kicks at the dead dog lying at his feet, a sudden, hot rush of anger flowing through him. 

Ranboo didn’t write about the dogs in his book. He better not have missed anything else.

…

Quackity doesn’t go looking for Technoblade, he really doesn’t, not at first. He tries to find Tommy, but the dark, acrid smoke that surrounds him is blinding, and he doubles over every few seconds, erupting into a violent coughing fit. 

He feels sweat stick his clothes to his skin beneath the armor he has thrown on, rising heat quickly becoming very uncomfortable, especially not knowing from what direction it is coming from. It makes him feel trapped, and that makes him feel panicked.

Memories of the explosion that had destroyed L’Manburg creep into the back of his head. Being thrown violently in the blast, being lost in the heat and the smoke, like he is now. 

Above it all, he remembers Technoblade, standing tall and proud, unleashing wither after wither on the smoking wreck of a country. 

The heat is so familiar, the smoke and panicked shouts, the rattling explosions that are happening right now but already happened months ago. 

He hears a growl to the right of him, a dog emerging from the smoke. It circles him, sharp teeth exposed in a snarl.

“Oh shit,” he rasps, eyes streaming as he strains not to blink, trying not to take his eyes off of the dog for even a second.

His sword hangs from his hip, but even the most subtle movements have the dog growling louder. 

Eyes wide, heart racing, he moves his hand slowly to his side. 

“Nice dog,” he says, fighting the rising cough in his lungs. His fingers find the hilt of his sword and he knows he only has a second to pull the sword out before the dog attacks.

His heart flutters as he reaches to unsheathe the sword, the dog lunging at him.

The moment goes too fast, his brain barely able to process it as he is knocked to the ground, the heavy weight of the dog on his chest, his sword still in its sheath.

And then the dog is whining, he is covered in blood, and Sapnap is standing over him, bloody axe in hand.

“What the fuck,” he exclaims, blinking, as the dog goes completely limp on top of him, eyes glazed over, its teeth an inch from his throat.

“Get up, dude, c’mon” Sapnap says urgently, his armor and exposed clothing covered in blood. 

“Well fucking help me,” Quackity says, trying to roll the dog off of him. Sapnap pushes the corpse off of him with his boot, extending a crimson-stained hand to help him to his feet.

“I can’t find Karl,” Sapnap says shakily. “I lost him in the first explosion and I don’t know where he is.”

“What about George?”

“He’s with Ponk. I left him to find Karl.”

Another explosion, close by, so close he can feel the heat on his back, uproots him, disrupting his balance. He grabs onto Sapnap, who stumbles as well.

“I’m going to kill that motherfucker,” Quackity says, gritting his teeth. He unsheathes his netherite sword, gripping it tightly, turning towards the source of the explosion.

Sapnap’s eyes widen, ash catching in his eyelashes.

“That’s a bad idea Quackity,” he says, pulling him back. “Let’s just go find Karl, alright?”

Quackity shakes his head, coughing.

“He’s just gonna keep doing this, man. Someone’s gotta stop him.”

“Leave it to Dream. He has a plan, right?”

Quackity scowls. Dream had told him not to go after the anarchist, but whatever Dream’s plan is, it’s taking too long. Besides, when had he made it a habit to listen to that bastard? 

“Come on, we gotta find Karl,” Sapnap insists, tugging at his arm. 

He shrugs the other boy off. He hopes Karl is alright, he really does, but there is an anger coursing through him, hotter than the fire raging nearby. He will not sit and take this, not like last time. 

“I’m going after him,” he says. “You go find Karl.”

He turns to go, but Sapnap grabs him.

“No, wait,” he says, clearing his throat nervously. “I’ll- I’ll go with you,” he says, adjusting his grip on his axe, flexing his fingers. “You need a good PVPer by your side,” he adds.

“Are you saying I’m not good at PVP?” Quackity asks.

Sanap grimaces, which is all the answer Quackity needs.

“Fuck you,” he says, moving through the smoke, in the direction of the last explosion. He can’t help a small smile from creeping onto his face as Sapnap hurries behind him.

He’ll never admit it, but having Sapnap by his side makes him feel a lot more secure. The guy comes in real handy with all the dogs on the prowl. He kills them swiftly, sensing them before Quackity does, even in the thick smoke.

Painful coughs wrack his body as they approach the site, small fires burning, the rubble of Christmas decorations and wood strewn around.

“Where do you think he is?” Sapnap asks as they creep through the wreckage, both of them tensing with every creak of the wood beneath them.

“He’s gotta still be around here,” Quackity responds. “He was just here.”

They get their answer not a moment later, an arrow cutting through the smoke, whistling through the air.

Sapnap raises his shield, the arrow embedding itself in the wood with a thunk. He lowers it with a muttered curse, face paling considerably.

Quackity exhales shakily. 

If Sapnap had brought up the shield a second later, there would be an arrow stuck in his face right now.

A figure emerges from the smoke, grey mist swirling around him. Tall and looming, netherite armor shining, red cloak sweeping out behind him.

Quackity’s eyes stream and his hands shake, but it is too late now.

“Sapnap,” Technoblade says. His voice is chilling despite the intense heat. He wields a netherite sword in one hand, a lowered crossbow in the other. “Quackity,” he says, intense gaze fixing on him. “I’m surprised you would come find me. After what happened last time…”

Quackity’s chest constricts, remembering his last death, a pickaxe swung up through his jaw, a sickening crack the last thing he can remember. 

“I’m going to kill you,” Quackity chokes out. “I said that, and I meant it.”

Technoblade just laughs.

“Really Quackity? You want to do this? Again?”

Quackity steps forward, brandishing his sword. Anger is like a drug coursing through his veins. Sapnap shoots him a nervous glance, but his vision narrows until Technoblade is all he can see. 

“I’ll give you a chance, Quackity,” Technoblade says. Quackity bristles at the amusement in his voice. “I’ll let you go right now, both of you. If you leave L’Manburg right now, I won’t kill you. I think that’s pretty generous of me.”

“You son of a bitch,” Quackity growls.

“I take that as a ‘no’. What about you, Sapnap? You wanna take up my offer?”

Sapnap shifts beside Quackity. He hesitates. For a moment, Quackity thinks he’s going to give in.

“I think- I think I’m good,” he says instead, nodding at Quackity. The relief is instantaneous. 

Technoblade shrugs. 

“Fine,” he says, and he almost sounds disappointed. “Blood it is.”

He moves forward and his sword is nothing but a blur, a streak of purple amidst the grey.

He is fast. Even with two people, it is nearly impossible to catch him off guard, to pierce through the terrifying, never ending, battering assault. 

There is no moment of respite, no moment to breathe. If he is not targeting Quackity, he is targeting Sapnap, if he is not targeting Sapnap, he is targeting Quackity. The two rush to each other’s aid, defending the other from the Blade, before the roles are reversed and the defender must be defended. 

Quackity can feel himself being worn down, his breaths becoming increasingly labored, a stitch in his side burning as he blocks a hit that would have swept Sapnap off of his feet. 

Sweat pours from his face from the physical exertion and the crackling fires just a few feet away. Sapnap seems to be in the same situation, dark hair hanging in his face, his arms shaking as he swings at Technoblade with his axe.

Technoblade does not seem to feel the same exhaustion they do. In fact, his hits become stronger, harder, the more the two are worn down. He has what looks like an endless supply of potions, splashing them on the ground at his feet every few seconds. His face is set in a blank expression as he tears into their defenses.

There is movement in the grey mist. Quackity’s eyes shift, for only a brief moment. 

He turns his attention back to the fight, and can only watch in horror as an arrow shoots out from Technoblade’s crossbow, piercing Sapnap’s exposed neck.

“No!” he screams, diving for his friend as the raven-haired boy falls to his knees, a shocked expression on his face. 

Quackity manages to catch him, holding him to his chest as he coughs up blood, awful gurgling noises leaving his blood smeared lips. Technoblade is forgotten as Sapnap brings his hand up frantically, twisting his fingers in the part of Quackity’s sweater that hangs out of his armor. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” Quackity says, fighting tears, unsure of what to say, what to do. His hands shake as he grips Sapnap’s shoulders, holding him as his eyes widen, blood spilling down his neck. “You’ll- you’ll respawn,” he says, choking on the words. “You’re gonna be okay, it’s alright man.”

This death isn’t permanent, he knows that, logically he does, but it doesn’t change the horror of feeling the life drain out of his friend, doesn’t lessen the pain of seeing him struggle in his arms, thick blood staining his lips.

He holds Sapanp as he slowly disintegrates, until there is nothing left of him but his scattered items. Quackity knows he will respawn, another life gone, but it suddenly hits him that the same does not apply to him, that if he fails in the next few moments, he will be gone forever. 

It is a difficult thing, to face your own mortality, especially when it waits just a few steps away. 

Quackity has never been one to back down before.

He grabs his sword, feeling something hard settle in his chest.

He slowly rises to his feet, blood rushing in his ears. 

Technoblade stands, watching. 

“I told you,” Technoblade says. “I warned you. You’re going to die a meaningless death.”

Quackity doesn’t care. The image of Sapnap choking on his own blood will never leave him. The nightmares, the memories of a destroyed L’Manburg are with him forever. It’s all because of the man in front of him. 

Without a word he strikes, thrusting at the exposed space between Technoblade’s chestplate and his netherite-clad arm. 

It lands, the sword piercing the anarchist.

With a flick of his own sword, and with eyes blazing, Technoblade dislodges the sword, pushing Quackity off balance. He stumbles, exposing his side, which Technoblade takes advantage of, his sword a streak of purple as he swings at his side. 

The powerful hit sends him flying across the oak. He slams into the ground, jarring his left side painfully, even through the armor. 

Technoblade approaches at a leisurely pace. He is just a blur through the stinging tears.

Quackity pulls himself to his feet, dizzy, thrusting forward again.

This time his attack is blocked, countered by another powerful swing, which he only barely manages to catch, blocking Technoblade’s sword with his own, hovering an inch over his face. 

He grimaces with exertion, arms shaking as he holds the sword off, pushing Technoblade off and away.

It is a brief victory, and it doesn’t even matter. Technoblade advances, attacking like a machine, like the movements have been wired into him, too fast to predict, too powerful to hold off.

He advances, and Quackity backtracks, tripping over his own feet as he desperately tries to defend himself. The anger is no longer enough to fuel him.

Technoblade swings again, and this time it lands, slashing across his neck and his face, starting at his collarbone and ending at his left temple. 

It is a blazing pain, red and hot and angry. It sucks what little breath he has left away, an invisible force knocking him to his knees. 

His hands come up, uncomprehending of what has just happened. He is blinded by red, blood and pain, it’s all the same. 

He can’t hear, can’t see. There is only that agonizing burning, throbbing with every racing pulse of his heart. 

Blinded by blood and pain, Quackity doesn’t see Dream approaching from behind Technoblade.

He doesn’t see Technoblade turn, facing the masked man. 

He collapses in a sticky pool of blood, choking on the bitter smoke filling his lungs, the world spinning until it fades to black.

...

Dream peers down at Quackity’s bloodied form, lying motionless behind Technoblade.

He sighs.

"I told him not to go after you."

“Do people usually disobey you?” Technoblade asks coolly, blood dripping from the tip of his sword. 

Dream hums in amusement.

“Only people who want to end up like that,” he says, gesturing towards Quackity with his axe. His face is nearly unrecognizable, caked in dark blood. 

It is Technoblade’s turn to be amused. He smiles.

“Not everyone.”

“Eh,” Dream responds, shrugging. “There’s still time.”

If Dream were anyone else the sight of Technoblade smiling, blood smeared on his armor, on his weapon, would be terrifying. It doesn’t terrify him. Ranboo’s book holds a special place in his inventory, and he can’t help but smile at the thought of it. If only Technoblade knew.

“Well then, I say we finish this quickly.”

“Why, you in a rush or something?”

“I got a country to destroy, Dream,” Technoblade says, twirling his sword in his calloused hand. 

“Well, I’ll try to keep this short,” Dream says.

Technoblade is the first to move, always on the offensive.

Dream has fought him once before, and it was a fight that he has engraved into his head, memorized every swing, every sidestep, every new technique Dream had yet to learn. 

He moves the same as he did, all those years ago, like a dancer, like his motions are choreographed, smooth and graceful, packed with power.

If it is a dance, then Dream is his partner, blocking every forward motion, sidestepping and parrying and dodging, predicting movements before they happen. He sees them in the twist of the hips, in the twitching of fingers, the breath taken before a cutting swing. 

“You know, it’s a real shame,” Dream says, blocking a hit with his shield, panting slightly. “It’s a shame you would throw everything away, any trust, any power, for Tommy, of all people. We could have been a good partnership, you and me.”

He thrusts forward, hoping to catch the Blade off guard.

“This isn’t about Tommy,” Technoblade says, dodging the attack, countering with his own. His expression, before so concentrated, cracks a bit, something new flashing across his face before the wall comes up again. 

Dream smiles.

“It’s always about Tommy, isn’t it?”

They move, forwards, then backwards, like an aggressive, deadly two step, forwards, then backwards, amidst the swirling gray smoke. 

It is a rhythm broken by a stray dog, emerging from the smoke without warning, ramming into Dream’s side with a snarl. 

Dream hits the ground with a shout, the dog managing to bite his left hand as he brings it up to cover his neck. 

Blood smears across his mask as he wrestles for control over the rabid animal. His hand throbs angrily, but it is a pain he ignores as he brings his hands up, attempting to snap the dog’s jaw shut. The dog’s fur quickly becomes matted with his blood, its eyes wide and wild.

He can see Technoblade move away, in his peripheral vision. For a moment he is confused as to why he would simply leave him here, but then Dream sees him pulling out soul sand.

“No!” Dream shouts hoarsely, desperately trying to throw the dog off of him, its weight crushing, as he watches Technoblade place the skulls on top of the soul sand. 

Quickly transferring his hold of the dog’s jaw to his right hand, straining against the dog’s aggressive movements, he reaches into his inventory with his bleeding hand, pulling out an ender pearl. 

Slick with blood, he tosses the pearl, right before Technoblade can place the last skull. 

He lands next to Technoblade, grabbing his armored shoulder and throwing another ender pearl, up into El Rapids, hidden in the clouds of smoke, but always hovering above L’Manburg.

The pearl flings them several feet above the ground of El Rapids, sending them crashing to the earth. The breath is knocked out of Dream as he smacks the ground, rolling to the side.

Technoblade lands next to him, just as unceremoniously.

Gasping for breath, Dream pulls into himself, ribs aching, as he tries to stand.

Technoblade seems to have recovered from his landing faster, swaying on his feet, looming over him. 

“I didn’t realize you were so defensive over L’Manburg,” Technoblade says, unsheathing his axe. Dream can see his own reflection, shining on the purple surface. A spidery crack runs down the center of his mask.

Down below, the screams have grown louder, the explosions much more frequent. 

“My server,” Dream says through gritted teeth. “It’s my fucking server.”

“You keep saying that like I care,” Technoblade responds, pressing the axe against his neck. “You may be able to control everyone else on this server. You may scare the rest of them into submission. But let me be clear,” he says, pulling out the soul sand with his other hand. “You do not control me.”

He kicks out at Dream’s chest, hard, knocking the breath out of him, his already sore ribs screaming. 

Through tear-filled eyes he watches as Technoblade places the soul sand into a T-shape, placing three wither skulls on top, again and again, five spawners placed. 

The withers spawn with an echoing screech, blowing a massive hole in the ground, dirt raining down on the country below. 

Technoblade pearls to safety, back to where Dream lies, curled into himself, fighting to regain his breath.

His heart pounds painfully in his chest, pulsing in his ears.

With a grunt, he shoots forward, diving into Technoblade’s shins, knocking him to the ground again.

Above them, the withers shoot out skulls, El Rapids falling apart around them, the great black pyramid quickly demolished by the raining explosives, the ground beneath them shaking.

With shaking hands he pulls out another ender pearl, taking advantage of the brief moment of surprise from Technoblade, holding tight to the anarchist as he pearls back down below into the chaos of L’Manburg.

The withers have completely destroyed El Rapids, and now descend on L’Manburg, following the pair.

Arrows fly through the air as the people in L’Manburg become more organized, finding each other in the maze of smoke, fighting off the withers. 

Dream and Technoblade land in L’Manburg, where the podium once stood, now a smoking pile of debris.

Dream’s chest aches, his bleeding hand pulses in time with his racing heart.

It doesn’t matter. None of the pain matters. He feels a strange sort of high, a surge of triumphant energy. 

El Rapids is gone. Dirt and debris rain down around them, the remains of a country built to mock him, by people he once thought he could trust. 

He stands on unsteady legs.

The people of his server stand below, still fighting off the withers.

Technoblade rises to his feet. He glances around briefly.

“Looking for something?” Dream asks. He can’t help but laugh, the triumph, the victory, already racing through his veins.

Technoblade says nothing, advancing without a word, an anger woven into his movements.

There is nothing graceful about this fight, no strange art in the way they move. This fight is animalistic, brutal, a battle of instinct, of reflexes. 

Technoblade’s sword is a streak, a flash, but it is nothing compared to what Dream knows, and it makes him giddy, makes him laugh.

“Are you missing someone?” he asks, his shield cracking beneath Technoblade’s sword. A stray wither skull lands nearby, the small blast knocking him to his knees. 

Doesn’t matter. Technoblade is slowing down now. His expression is hard, unreadable, but his movements are what give him away. He is tensing, his jaw clenching.

“Someone was supposed to spawn a few more withers, a while ago, weren’t they?”

Another flash of new emotion across Technoblade’s face. He pauses outright, freezing. 

“I have a favor to ask of you, Technoblade,” Dream says. “And this time I have some incentive for you.”

...

After the initial few blasts, after helping Tubbo to his feet, after ducking behind a barrel and hearing Dream’s plan laid out, Punz approaches Philza’s house carefully, flinching with every loud noise, every shout. 

He stifles a cough, eyes tearing up from the bitter smoke. 

L’Manburg is engulfed in fiery chaos. He can’t say it brings him any kind of happiness to see it in this state. The people rushing about now, panic driving their motions, aren’t all enemies. He would even consider some to be something like friends. 

Working with Dream normally entails  ignoring his better instincts, holding his nose and closing his eyes and getting the job done. Not that it bothers him too much, the pay is too good to really think about things like that, but he has to admit that he is happy to not be on the side of destruction for once. 

He hears the dogs before he sees them, watching Technoblade from up on the roof of one of the houses overlooking L’Manburg. 

The barking is almost deafening, the snarling sends shivers down his spine. It sounds like there are dozens of them, invisible in the thick smoke. 

Technoblade descends from the roof, disappearing momentarily, and Punz rushes up the stairs of the house, taking his chance early. Being found by Technoblade, while not ideal, sounds a lot more appealing than being torn apart by dogs.

Reaching the top of the stairs, smoke shrouding his movements, he kicks the door in, brandishing a netherite sword.

The house is dark, the only lighting the natural light filtering in through the curtained window. Chests line the wall to the right. He turns to the left, where Philza stands, frozen, soul sand placed carefully in a T-shape, wither skull in hand.

“You’re not wearing your ankle bracelet,” Punz says after a moment of silence, pointing the tip of his sword at Phil’s unarmored chest. “That, and you’re trying to spawn a wither.”

Phil doesn’t say anything. He stares at Punz with open obstinance, not a hint of fear in the way he holds himself.

“I’m going to need you to put that down,” Punz says, pushing the sword against Phil’s chest. “Now, please,” he adds when Phil doesn’t move.

The other man brings his hand away from the soul sand.

“Slower!” Punz says. “Slower.”

The wither skull stares up at him as Phil lowers it.

“Good, ok that’s-”

In a flash, Phil has placed the skull on the soul sand, reaching for another from within his inventory. 

With reflexes that his conscious mind hasn’t quite caught up with, Punz swings his sword at Phil’s arm, slashing at his wrist. Phil drops the second wither skull with a shout, and Punz tackles him to the ground, sword thrown to the side, pulling the other man’s arms behind his back. Phil struggles, but Punz splashes him with a potion of weakness, and he instantly goes limp.

“You’re under arrest,” Punz says, panting. “You’re under arrest for treason and conspiring with a war criminal and violating house arrest and probably a lot of other things that I am unaware of.”

He ties Phil’s wrists, restraining him, and then pulls him to his feet, his right sleeve already soaked with and dripping blood. 

“You won’t be able to stop him,” Phil says, words slurred from the potion. He laughs weakly. 

“I don’t know about that,” Punz says, pulling out the potion of invisibility. He splashes it on his captive, holding onto his non injured arm tightly. “You’re pretty good leverage.”

...

And not a half hour later, plenty of time for Punz to have reached the prison, Dream reasons, he kneels, completely at Technoblade’s mercy, knowing that the man won’t do anything to him, not until he’s heard him out. 

The people below continue their battle with the withers, only two left now. They don’t seem to notice Dream and Technoblade quite yet, rising smoke masking them.

Amidst the grey, they are somewhere else, far from L’Manburg it feels. 

“What are you talking about?” Technoblade asks, sword level with Dream’s throat. His grip has gone white around the jeweled hilt.

“You really surprise me, Technoblade,” Dream says. He ignores the question, preferring to tease the anger, the emotion, out of the anarchist. There is something so satisfying about the uncertainty that Dream can see in the man in front of him. “For all your bluster, you really are quite sentimental, aren’t you?”

“Dream, you better start talking,” Technoblade says, pushing the tip of the sword against his throat. 

“Or what?”

“I’ll kill you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Where’s Phil?”  
“You should be more careful about who you trust, really. You got some kid running around, writing down everything you say. It was easy. It was too easy.”

Technoblade has that look in his eyes, the anger of legends. He drops the sword, pulling Dream to his feet violently by his lapels, face a few inches from the mask.

“Tell me where he is,” he says, voice teetering on the edge of cold, barely contained emotion threatening to burst through.

“You won’t be able to get to him,” Dream says. “He’s locked up. I don’t know if you’ve noticed the prison I’ve recently had constructed, but it’s impenetrable, inescapable. Punz and Sam are with him right now, and if you aren’t escorted to the prison, all nice and polite, within the next, oh, I’d say about thirty minutes, I’ve instructed Punz to slit his throat.”

Technoblade’s grip tightens. 

“You owe me, Technoblade. This could have gone a lot easier for you, but you decided to get involved and you dragged Phil along with you. You see what happens when people disobey me?”

Technoblade pushes him away, just enough space between them for him to bring the hilt of his sword forward, slamming it into Dream’s masked face.

The spidery crack in his mask extends, but the mask holds as he stumbles backwards, stars exploding in his vision. 

He can’t help but laugh, swaying on his feet, blood gushing from his nose. 

He’s cracked through the wall, he’s blown a hole in the Blade’s hard exterior. He lashes out because there is nothing else for him to do.

“You’re wasting time,” Dream says, voice lilting, bouncing triumphantly on the words.

“You’re lying.”

He lifts the mask, just enough to wipe the blood away, bloody, manic smile exposed.

“And you’re betting on Phil’s life right now.”

A wither skull lands behind them, small blast blowing a hole in the wooden floor. Neither of them move, neither flinch, they stand, Technoblade so tense, so stiff, it looks painful, Dream bouncing on his heels, high on victory.

“You’re going to turn yourself in, or Phil dies.”

It’s not a favor anymore, it’s a demand.

“I could just kill all of you, right now,” Technoblade says darkly. Dream doesn’t doubt he could, angry as he is now. Doesn’t matter.

“It will be too late,” Dream says. “You can kill us all, and it will be too late. Even if you make it to the prison in time, there’s no way to get in without Sam. If you kill him, you don’t get in. If you somehow manage to convince him to let you in, without the escort of Bad and Ant, Punz will know to kill Phil. He’s locked himself in a cell with him, so even if you pull something, you won’t be able to get in, at least not in time to save Phil.”

Technoblade blinks, jaw tightening. In that moment, Dream knows he is going to surrender.

“I win!” he exclaims, voice rising, pushing against Technoblade’s chest, smile widening. “I win! It’s over! There is nothing,  _ nothing,  _ you can do!”

The withers are gone now, killed, the smoke starting to dissipate in the brisk wind, unveiling the scene to the rest of the server. 

“I have the control here,” Dream says, tone turned harsh. “I have control. I control everything, everyone on this server. You think you’re exempt from that? These people you  _ love _ ,” he spits the word out, sour in his mouth. “They are nothing but weakness. I control them, I control  _ you.  _ Easy.”

Everyone is tangled up in strings, even Technoblade. Dream tugs on those strings, and like puppets, they move in just the right way. 

Down below, the fires are beginning to die out, the mangled bodies of dogs strewn across the docks. In the thinning smoke he can make out the bloodied, bruised faces of the assembled crowd. The wounded are laid out next to each other, Niki and Karl hovering over them. He spots Quackity amongst the few seriously injured. 

Puffy fires an arrow at Technoblade, but Dream brings his shield up, blocking the shot.

“Stop!” Dream shouts. Puffy lowers her bow, confusion on hers and everyone else’s face. 

“What the hell?” someone says, loud enough for Dream to hear.

He lowers his mask over the bloodied bottom half of his face.

“It’s alright,” he says, turning to Technoblade, who watches him with murder in his eyes. “Technoblade is going to turn himself in.”

“Bullshit!” 

That’s Purpled, clutching his side, leaning against Ponk.

“I assure you, it’s not. Is it, Technoblade?”

The anarchist stays silent.

“The construction of the prison is now complete, built for people who choose to threaten the peace of the server,” Dream says, picking up from the silence. “Technoblade, along with Philza, who has already been imprisoned for crimes committed against the server, will serve a lifelong sentence.”

Dream pulls out his axe, gesturing at Technoblade.

“Empty your inventory,” he says. “Now,” he adds, when Technoblade hesitates. “No bullshit. Phil’s life depends on it.”

Slowly, Technoblade drops his items, swords, axes, crossbows, shields, potions, food. All of it falls to the ground, floating harmlessly. 

“Your armor,” Dream says.

The anarchist unclasps his armor wordlessly, throwing it at Dream’s feet.

“On your knees. Hands in the air.”

Technoblade complies, red stained hands coming up, dropping to his knees in the ashy rubble.

“Ant, Bad,” Dream says, looking out on the gathered people. “Come restrain him, please.”

The two members of the Badlands move through the crowd, up onto the podium. Dream looks out, trying to find Tommy, but the kid isn’t out in the open. There are lots of places to hide in the wreckage, in the smoke, especially with invisibility potions. Dream doesn’t believe he’s left, not yet. 

He spots Fundy and Jack below. They are bruised, but otherwise fine. He will have to find some sort of punishment for them for letting Tommy loose.

Bad pulls Technoblade’s hands behind his back, securing them there, pulling him to his feet.

“It’s over,” Dream says to the crowd as Technoblade stands there, Ant and Bad on either side of him, towering over the two. “There’s no reason to be afraid anymore. There’s no reason to have to look over your shoulder all the time, no reason to feel threatened in your own homes. We as a server have proved that united, we are stronger than any threat.”

Stinging ash rains down around them, thick as snowflakes, wooden structures groaning as they fight against the snaking fires. 

Someone whistles, and then someone cheers, and then most of the people gathered have joined in, a country that could be a lot worse off rising in front of them, the smoke fading away in the wind. 

It’s a show, a spectacle. For once, Dream gets to perform the part of a hero. 

“Escort him to the prison,” Dream says to Ant and Bad, his words almost inaudible over the loud cheering. “And take your time,” he adds as they begin to lead Technoblade away. “We’re in no rush, are we?”

Technoblade is led through the crowd, chin high, eyes focused on a point in the distance. The people part, still too afraid to get any closer to him, but willing to jeer at him from a distance.

He looks out over the people, for a moment making eye contact with George. The other man’s stare is piercing, kneeling next to an unconscious Quackity. 

Dream breaks away from his gaze, turning his attention elsewhere, catching sight of Ranboo, the lanky boy standing nearly a head taller than most of the people present. The boy watches Technoblade being pulled along by Ant and Bad, an expression of pain on his face as he helps support Tubbo, who looks seconds from passing out. 

There’s that giddiness again, that joy, seeing Ranboo’s miserable face, knowing he’s won. 

He watches as Ant and Bad pearl away, their prisoner disappearing with them. The crowd continues cheering, but there is still unfinished business to attend to. 

“Tommy!” he calls out over the din. “Why don’t you come on out?” 

He flexes his fingers on the handle of his axe, glancing around.

“Let’s talk.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope that was not horrible, i hate writing fight scenes lol. but we got where we needed to be so that's all that matters!! i really thought the prison was built for techno and it annoyed me they never put him in there so now i'm going to do it. hehehe. lots of angst to come in the next few chapters :)


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the festival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!!! another chapter. i kind of consider this to be a filler for the next chapter, which if i planned correctly, is going to be a fun one. but we gotta connect everything together somehow so this is that chapter.
> 
> anyways, enjoy! comments are appreciated :)

Knees tucked under his chin, arms wrapped tightly around himself, Tommy flinches sharply at the sound of Dream calling out his name. He is invisible but remains huddled under a large, dislocated piece of roof as if with the slightest raise of his head someone might be able to see his blonde hair peeking out. 

“Tommy!” Dream calls out again, his voice that sing-song quality that grates on Tommy’s nerves. “I just want to talk!”

That’s the last thing Tommy wants to do. Talk. That’s when Dream’s words get inside of his head, whispering in his ear, making him think things he doesn’t want to think about. 

Why did he stay? He should have ran, but the fear was paralyzing, and the thought of Dream having all his discs was nauseating. 

And now, with Techno and Phil gone, there is no one left to protect him. No one left to believe him. 

Then again, they had lied to him, betrayed him and tried to destroy L’Manburg. Maybe they would have left him to Dream if it meant getting away.

His breathing becomes louder as his panicked thoughts increase in volume. Pressing a hand to his mouth, he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing.

“Tommy! Make this easier on yourself and just come out!”

He can’t go back into exile. He can’t go back to that island. He can’t go back. 

“Fine,” he hears Dream say over the roaring in his ears. “I’ll come find you myself.”

...

Dream tightens his hold on his axe, making his way through the rubble. Glass crunches beneath his feet, smoke still lingering, swirling over the smoldering debris. 

Puffy, Fundy and Jack follow behind him at his request. The two younger men are basically useless, just there for further punishment, Puffy being the only other actually competent member of their little crew. 

He’s not too concerned about actually getting Tommy to stay, he has the discs after all, but finding him might be tricky.

“Spread out,” he says. “Fundy, search up there,” he says, pointing at the houses hanging over the country, their roofs caved in, their porches covered in debris from El Rapids. “Jack, search the other houses. You,” he says, pointing at Puffy, gesturing towards the left most side of the docks. “You cover that side of L’Manburg. I have this side.”

Jack and Fundy scamper off, weapons unsheathed. Dream turns to continue searching before noticing that Puffy hasn’t moved.

“What?” he asks, voice tinged by impatience. “Why aren’t you moving?”

Puffy glances away for a second.

“What are you going to do with him, once you’ve found him?” she asks, looking back at him. 

“Nothing he doesn’t deserve,” Dream says. 

She nods, but something in her expression tells him she doesn’t quite believe him.

“I hope you’re not feeling sympathy for a terrorist,” he says quietly. 

Puffy shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “No, of course not.”

“Good,” Dream says. “Now get looking.”

She unsheathes her sword, turning stiffly and making her way through the wreckage.

Dream turns back to his section, tuning everything else out. 

“Tommy,” he calls out, stepping carefully through the rubble. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

There’s so many places the kid could be. The ruined docks, with large pieces of roof, barrels and wooden planks strewn around provide a lot of hiding spots, especially with invisibility potions. Hell, the kid could be right in front of him and he wouldn’t know it.

He hears the others calling for Tommy, their voices carrying in the wind, with no success. 

A small fire eats away at the ground near him. He steps on the flames, grinding the heel of his boot into the wood. 

“Tommy!” he yells again. “Get out here!”

He steps over the mangled body of a dog, careful not to step in the pool of congealed blood underneath it, staining the oak. 

He scans the docks, feeling that old impatience, that old anger stealing the air from his lungs. His fingers clench around the handle of his axe. It takes everything in him not to scream himself hoarse, demand that Tommy reveal himself.

Forcing himself to breathe, he continues on.

Something crunches nearby. Glass, or wood, or something. 

It could be a coincidence. The surrounding structures are not very stable, portions of the buildings collapsing in on themselves, stray debris crashing to the ground.

But it didn’t sound like that. It sounded like someone shifting around on the ground.

The frustration begins to fade, replaced by a rush of adrenaline.

“Tommy,” he says, quieter this time, as if the boy were nearby, like he suspects he is. There is a portion of roof, leaning against the posts holding up the upper platform of L’Manburg, where the podium once was. 

He hears it again, that shuffling. It could be a rat, some small animal that had somehow survived the attack. Or it could be Tommy.

“I have your discs, Tommy,” he says, approaching the piece of roof, where he can see there is room for someone to squeeze under. “I got one from Skeppy, but as I’m sure you found out, the other one was from Tubbo. He gave it to me, Tommy. Willingly. I didn’t even have to really ask.”

He kicks a piece of Christmas decoration, a burnt wreath, across the wooden planks.

“He hates you. I know you probably won’t take my word for it, but I’m sure he told you as much in your little scuffle earlier.”

A sharp inhale. He hears it, and he smiles.

“And now Technoblade and Philza are gone. They’re never getting out of that prison.” 

He sighs. 

“It’s their own fault,” he says. “But you didn’t want to destroy L’Manburg, did you, Tommy? Why would you? It was your home, wasn’t it? And they went ahead and did it. Behind your back, lying to you, making you believe you were one of them. You’re not one of them. You’re not one of anything, are you?”

He crouches down, next to the small opening, a space only big enough for one person. 

“I don’t understand you,” he says. “I was your friend. I was the only person who consistently visited you, I was the only person who showed up to your little beach party.”

What a pathetic endeavor that was. Convincing Tommy no one wanted to show up was one of the easiest things he’s ever done. The kid was so willing to believe it, there was almost no persuasion involved.

“I’m the only person who cares about you. I took all the discs because I knew it was the only way for you to come here and talk to me. To listen to me and to what I’m saying.”

He pauses, waiting for a response. 

There is none. Instead, he watches as Tommy’s ragged shoes come into view, then his legs, until eventually the boy is right in front of him, fully visible, arms wrapped around himself, knees pulled up to his chin. 

Tear tracks run down his ash smeared cheeks.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” Dream says, gently reaching out for the boy’s arm. Tommy flinches away, wide eyes rimmed red. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he adds.

“I don’t want to go back,” the boy rasps. “Please don’t make me go back.”

Dream smiles to himself, the mask shielding his expression from Tommy.

“I’m not going to send you back to the island, Tommy,” he says, keeping his voice level and calm. “But you still haven’t learned your lesson, have you?”

Tommy stiffens, holding himself tighter.

“Come on,” Dream says, nodding away from the little shelter. 

The boy doesn’t move.

“Get up, Tommy,” Dream says, a bit firmer now. 

Tommy stares at him for a moment before slowly crawling out of the little space, standing shakily in the wreckage of L’Manburg. 

Puffy sees them immediately, whistling to Jack and Fundy, who scramble out of the houses they are searching. 

Tommy is the same shade as the swirling ash, his grey face shining his sweat and tears. He looks like he did in exile, not in the way his clothes are torn and worn, but in the way that his eyes are dull, hopeless, his posture slumped, defeat evident in every reluctant breath. 

“I’m your friend, Tommy,” Dream says. “Remember that. I’m your only friend.”

...

Ranboo watches as Dream makes his way through the rubble, leaving the crowd behind to search for Tommy. He watches as Jack, Fundy and Puffy follow behind him, splitting up, calling out Tommy’s name. 

The rest of the crowd’s attention is divided between taking care of the wounded, celebrating Technoblade’s departure, helping to clean up some of the debris. Ranboo just watches as Dream wanders through L’Manburg, axe in hand, his painted smile more menacing than ever.

What does he do?

He is torn between his friends, wanting to keep supporting Tubbo, who is currently leaning heavily against him, his head bleeding, wanting to find Tommy, tell him to run, wanting to go to the prison himself, tear down every wall until he can free Techno and Phil. 

And still, the empty pocket where his memory book should be burns like a brand against his chest. 

“Here,” he mutters, grabbing Tubbo firmly by the arm as he sways against him. “Why don’t you sit down,” he says, helping lower a compliant Tubbo to the ground.

“I’m fine,” Tubbo says, but he winces with the words.

“Can we get some help over here please?” Ranboo calls out, looking over to where a few people huddle over Quackity and Connor, the most injured of the group. 

Ponk straightens from where he is kneeling, heading over to the two boys.

“What’s up?” he asks. “You hit your head, Tubbo?”

The boy nods, wincing again with the movement.

“He said he felt like he was going to throw up, before,” Ranboo says as Ponk kneels next to Tubbo, pushing away his blood soaked bangs to get a better look at his head. 

Ranboo glances back at L’Manburg.

_Please hide, Tommy._

“Could be a concussion,” Ponk says thoughtfully, lightly prodding at the boy’s bruised forehead. 

“Ow,” Tubbo complains, pulling away from his touch. 

“Sorry.”

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Ranboo asks, twisting his hands in his suit jacket.

“Of course,” Ponk says. “It doesn’t look like anything serious. We kind of used up all the healing potions, though,” he says, nodding towards where the other injured lie. “For now you’ll just have to power through it. I recommend going somewhere darker.”

Tubbo shifts.

“I want to stay here,” he says, grimacing. “I need to- I need to stay.”

“Tubbo-”

“Where’s Tommy?”

Ranboo feels the blood drain from his face and Ponk stiffen beside him. Tubbo is starting to slur his words, gazing out in a dazed sort of way.

“Can I- I want to talk to Tommy,” he says, grabbing Ranboo’s suit jacket sleeve. “Where is he?”

“He’s… not here,” Ponk says.

“Why?”

Neither answer.

“I hate Tommy,” Tubbo says, closing his eyes. “He’s-” 

He winces again, eyes screwed shut.

“You don’t hate him,” Ranboo says quietly. 

_Please don’t find him._

Tubbo snorts.

“You’re funny Ranboo. That’s what I like about you. You’re so funny,” he opens his eyes, staring into Ranboo’s with a sudden lucidity. “You’re my only friend.”

A shiver crawls up Ranboo’s spine with those words. He turns away, looking back at L’Manburg, where he can see figures moving through the rubble, searching for Tommy.

Someone whistles from up on the docks. He sees Dream, standing tall, axe and shield drawn. Beside him emerges Tommy.

Ranboo freezes at the sight of the other boy. 

Ponk turns when he notices how Ranboo stiffens.

“Is that Tommy?” he asks.

Ranboo just nods numbly. 

Ponk shakes his head.

“Kid should’ve run.”

Ranboo watches as Dream reaches for Tommy. 

Something pulls at his gut at the sight.

He remembers visiting Tommy in exile. It was the earlier days, and his memory is spotty, but the feeling of despair, the hopelessness, is permanently impressed on him.

He knows Dream had done something awful to Tommy. He knows at one point he could remember it clearly. It disappears from him now, the exact nuances of the abuse, but still that feeling of devastation for Tommy sticks with him. 

He sees it clearly in the way Tommy winces, flinching away from Dream’s hand.

It strikes something within him. Something animalistic, something protective.

In a blink, he is standing next to Dream up on the platform where the remains of the podium are strewn about. 

“What the-” Dream starts, but Ranboo flings himself at the man, knocking him to the ground before he can finish his exclamation.

“Run Tommy!” Ranboo shouts.

Tommy just stands there, uncomprehending.

“Tommy, you stay right there!” Dream growls, struggling to shove Ranboo off of him. 

“Tommy, go!”

“I will burn your discs if you leave, Tommy!” Dream shouts, throwing Ranboo to the side.

“Don’t listen to him!” Ranboo says, scrambling to his feet, his hands and knees embedded with tiny shards of glass, ignoring the stinging. “Tommy, you gotta go!”

Tommy doesn’t move, watching the struggle with a dull expression on his face.

Fundy rushes forward, grabbing Ranboo by the arm.

“What the hell are you doing, man?” he shouts, but Ranboo feels that pull again, that tug against his naval, and he’s standing directly in front of Tommy.

He grips the boy’s shoulders, ignoring the shocked, confused shouts from behind him. Concentrating, squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to do it again, tries to teleport them to the forests outside of L’Manburg. 

He opens his eyes, and they’ve only made it a few feet further.

“Tommy, please, you gotta go,” he says, glancing behind him, teleporting again as Dream lunges at him. 

“The discs,” Tommy whispers, eyes wide.

“Forget them,” Ranboo says. “You gotta get out of here.”

“Tommy!” Dream shouts, firing an arrow at Ranboo.

They jump forward again, the arrow lodging itself in the wooden planks a few feet away.

“Listen to me,” Ranboo says, fumbling in his inventory. “Go. The discs aren’t worth your life.”

He pulls out an invisibility potion Techno had given him before the attack, splashing it at Tommy’s feet, shoving the boy away from him. Before Dream can get to either of them, Tommy has disappeared from view. 

“No!” Dream shouts, shoving Ranboo aside, lunging at where Tommy had stood previously, rooted to the spot. His hands pass through empty air. 

“Tommy!” he shouts. “I have the discs!”

He pulls them out, shimmering black. 

Everything goes still. Their breaths are amplified in the quiet, as Dream strains to hear any movement, as Ranboo prays to anything that will listen that Tommy has left.

Ash settles on the discs as Dream holds them up.

“Tommy!” he calls out again, but if the boy is still around he isn’t listening. 

The wind picks up, ash and dust and dirt swirling through the air, stinging Ranboo’s eyes. He swallows as Dream slowly turns to him, placing the discs back into his inventory. The mask is even more terrifying now, blank smile unyielding of the true expression beneath the porcelain. 

“That was a mistake,” Dream says lowly. 

Ranboo backtracks as Dream approaches, tripping over debris, panic running its course through him. He tries to teleport again, but he can’t concentrate.

By now, the other members of the server have turned their attention to the spectacle on the docks, Puffy, Fundy and Jack watching from close by.

“Tubbo!” Dream calls out as he grabs Ranboo by the arm, pulling him in close, knife against his throat.

“Dream-” Puffy starts but he cuts her off with a sharp turn in her direction, anger radiating off of him.

“Tubbo!” he calls out again.

Ranboo’s heart beats like it is trying to break out of his chest. He struggles against Dream’s hold, but the man presses the knife harder to his neck, drawing blood, and he immediately stops, wincing at the sharp pain.

He squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to call on whatever it was that had pulled him from one place to another in the blink of an eye. There is nothing. 

Tubbo emerges from the crowd, leaning against Ponk, brow furrowed in confusion.

“You have another traitor, Tubbo,” Dream says, panting.

“Ranboo’s my friend,” Tubbo says with a loopy smile.

“Tubbo is hurt, Dream,” Ponk says slowly, watching the scene in front of him warily, holding tight onto Tubbo. “He doesn’t understand what’s going on.”

“He can see this,” Dream says. “Tubbo, I want you to see this.”

He pushes Ranboo away, throwing him to the ground. 

“Tubbo-” 

“You, shut up,” Dream says harshly, kicking out at Ranboo, his armored boots knocking the wind out of him. 

“Dream, what is going on,” Fundy says. 

Ranboo looks up at his friend through tear-filled eyes. Dread weighs his stomach down. 

“Shut up! All of you!” Dream shouts, brandishing his axe wildly. “I was going to wait until later to reveal this, but I guess now is as good a time as ever.”

He reaches into his inventory, pulling out a book, the cover worn and tattered.

Ranboo gasps.

“Ranboo is a traitor to L’Manburg,” Dream says, throwing the book at Tubbo’s feet. “It’s all in there. He’s been helping Technoblade this whole time.”

Ponk leans down, picking the book up. 

“You’re lying,” Fundy says. “You’re lying.”

“Am I, Ponk?”

The man flips through the book, scanning the pages. Tubbo rests his head on his shoulder.

“Did you write this, Ranboo?” Ponk asks. 

It is silent. Those still around watch, eyes wide, as Ranboo glances away. He has no words to defend himself. There is nothing to defend.

“What does it say?” Tubbo asks, reaching for the book. Ponk pulls it away.

“Tubbo, you need to sit down,” he says.

“No!” the boy exclaims, swaying as he pulls away from the man. “Show me the book.”

“Don’t-” Ranboo protests, clutching his stomach, but Tubbo has already yanked the book away, tearing through the pages frantically. 

“Tubbo-” he tries to say, but no other words will follow. 

The boy president looks up from the book slowly, staring into Ranboo’s face with open disgust. The dazed look in his eyes is gone, replaced by a cold severity.

“Didn’t I tell you Tubbo?” Dream asks.

Tubbo pauses before spinning around, collapsing onto the ground, retching loudly.

...

In the fading light of day Niki stands on the outskirts of L’Manburg, watching the scorched debris bobbing in the murky water beneath the docks. 

How many times has she been in this position? How many times has she looked out onto a desolate, demolished L’Manburg? 

Granted, the damage is not as bad as it has been in the past, but this time it almost seems worse. Before, there was hope. There was the hope of rebuilding, of freedom, of liberation. The relief after a storm. 

When had L’Manburg changed? When had it become a place full of bitter memories, of painful recollections? When had it become unsalvageable? 

When had it stopped being her home?

Everyone else has left for the night, the cleaning efforts to be rekindled early the next morning. The wounded are being cared for at Eret’s castle. The people of L’Manburg are scattered, seeking shelter where they can.

After everything, after the attack, and Tommy being alive, and Ranboo’s betrayal, she doesn’t want to be near anyone else.

She can’t leave. Like a grief-stricken friend who can’t stop mourning a person long dead.

She thinks she imagines it at first, seeing the grey figure move through the wreckage. A trick of the light, the last fading tendrils of smoke becoming something else.

She thinks that, until it is clear that there is someone out there, walking through L’Manburg. She doesn’t recognize them. Drawing out her sword, she narrows her eyes.

“Who is it?” she calls out, stiffening. 

The figure approaches until their face becomes visible in the quickly darkening country.

“Oh my god,” she says, sword falling from her hand, completely forgotten.

“Sorry,” says the figure. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her hand comes up to cover her mouth in shock. She feels as if she’s been submerged beneath icy water, goosebumps breaking out across her skin.

She knows that face. She knows that face better than her own. The last time she had seen it is engraved in her head, a memory that plays in her mind every time she closes her eyes, even now, months later.

It is grey now, transparent, but there is no mistaking who it is.

“Wil?”

The phantom frowns, pulling at a loose thread in his sweater.

“No, no, I’m not Wilbur,” he says, staring out at the rubble. His voice is Wilbur’s, the pitch and tonality higher, but it is his voice, and it is Wilbur’s face, grey and transparent, that turns to her.

“I- I don’t understand.”

“I’m not Wilbur,” the ghost says. “Everyone thinks I’m Wilbur, but I’m not.”

“Then who are you?” 

“I’m… I’m Ghostbur,” he says. 

Ghostbur. Her hands shake as she clenches them into fists, indescribable emotions swelling within her chest. 

“You- you’re a ghost?”

“Yep,” the ghost says, nodding. Why is there no recognition in his eyes? 

“I’m looking for my family. I don’t know where they are,” he adds, concern shining in his eyes.

“Your family?” she rasps. “You mean Fundy?”

“No, no, Phil and Techno left me at the house,” the ghost says. “Techno told me not to leave, but it’s been a while now and they haven’t come back yet. Neither has Tommy.”

Niki’s throat tightens. Her stomach drops.

“You were with Technoblade?”

“Yes,” Ghostbur says, nodding enthusiastically. “You know him?”

“How long? How long have you been with him?”

The ghost shrugs.

“A few weeks now. More than a month I’d say.”

Niki nods bitterly, unable to speak.

“Do you know where he is?”

The tears rise, hot and heavy, blurring her vision, forming a lump in her throat. She bites her lip, desperate not to let them fall, staring at what was once home.

“Do you know where Techno is?” the ghost asks again.

She clears her throat, turning to him. His face is the same as it was, but there is nothing of the old Wilbur in him. The phantom’s eyes are heavy and sorrowful, where light and joy once shone.

“Do you know who I am, Wilbur?” she asks, though looking at this grey, washed out version of her friend, she already knows the answer.

He cocks his head to the side slightly. He twists that thread in his fingers.

“Should I?” he asks, not maliciously, a genuine curiosity on his face. 

That is when the tears fall, when the realization she has been trying to deny, to resist and push away for months now, hits her square in the chest. 

L’Manburg is gone. It is right there in front of her, but it is gone, beyond repair. It has been decaying for a while now. 

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” the ghost says frantically, eyes widening in panic. “I’m- I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are. I can’t remember things very well, I’m really sorry.”

“You should know,” she says to the faded image of a friend she had sacrificed everything for, a friend whose vision she would have died for, a friend who she had watched wither away into a shade of himself until he had tried to kill everything they had ever fought for. 

A friend she had stood by until the very end, until he was dead and the land they had once found such happiness and peace in was a desolate, dark place, overrun by the power-hungry. 

“You should know who I am,” she says, turning and leaving the ghost to wander in the wreckage, looking for the people he can remember. Is it wrong that she feels a twisted sort of happiness that he will never find them? 

...

Dream arrives at Eret’s castle in the dark of a moonless night. He meets the king in the courtyard along with his knight, the cold air tense. 

“Dream,” Eret says, expression wary.

“Eret,” Dream replies, nodding. “Captain.”

Puffy nods back.

“You wanted to talk?”

“Yes, I did. I have something I need you to do.”

Eret watches him closely as they walk through the garden trees, the wild limbs and thick leaves masking their movements to anyone inside the castle. He walks with a regal grace, a smoothness in his step, something Dream had seen in him even before he had offered him the throne. He had always held his head high, like there was a crown perched on top.

“What could that be?”

The last time he had needed the king to do something, it had led to the ultimate betrayal of L’Manburg. He is sure the king is reflecting on it now. 

“Tommy escaped again, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Dream says. “I need to stay in L’Manburg, for the time being. I need people to track him down.”

Eret freezes, Puffy stopping abruptly behind him. 

“You want me to find Tommy?” Eret asks slowly.

“You, and your knight.”

“I have duties to fulfill, here, in the Dream SMP,” Eret says. 

Dream scoffs at that.

“I’m the one assigning you your duties, _Your Highness._ This is your next one.”

“There are people staying here, in the castle, I can’t just leave right now.”

“You can, and you will. You need to leave by tomorrow, at the latest.”

“What do you want us to do, once we’ve found him?” Puffy asks.

“Bring him back here, obviously.”

Eret exhales slowly, shaking his head.

“Why me?” he asks.

Dream knows that Eret’s relationship with L’Manburg has been rocky at best. He knows that Tommy despises the man, that he will probably never forgive him. 

“Why not?” he asks rhetorically, before turning on his heel and leaving the two to contemplate his words.

...

Huddled in the wreckage of the community house, watching as the first rays of the sun break across the horizon, Ranboo is approached by Dream.

How the masked man knows where he is, Ranboo doesn’t know. He sees Dream’s glowing netherite boots stop in front of him before raising his head and looking up into the painted smile. 

He expects some kind of immediate physical punishment, tensing. When Dream doesn’t move, he relaxes slightly.

What does he say? He doesn’t understand why he isn’t locked up in prison right now. After the festival, after Dream’s reveal to everyone, he had let Ranboo go. 

He doesn’t know whether to feel grateful or suspicious. 

He favors suspicion. Ever since Tommy’s exile, Dream’s presence has set him on edge.

Some part of him, however, wishes he was in prison. It would be easier than seeing old friends watch him with open disgust, hear them whispering about him.

“What are you doing here?” Dream asks.

Ranboo tightens his grip on himself. He shrugs. 

Dream stands in silence for a moment. 

“You’ve made some mistakes, you know,” he says. “And I don’t like traitors.”

That almost makes Ranboo laugh. He doesn’t regret saving Tommy. He doesn’t regret helping Technoblade, or Tubbo. He feels justified in not choosing sides, in choosing friends.

He does regret the pain he’s caused his friends in L’Manburg. He wishes they could understand.

“But when you helped Tommy escape,” Dream continues. “You did something. You teleported. How?”

Ranboo lowers his head. 

“I don’t know,” he mutters. 

“Did you use an ender pearl?”

Ranboo shakes his head, staring at the scorched wood beneath him.

“Then how?”

The questions are demanding, but he doesn’t have an answer.

It was just an instinct, a gut feeling, something pulling at his naval, and there he was, beside Dream. He hadn’t meant to do it. He doesn’t know how he did it. He just did.

“You’re different, Ranboo,” Dream says after a beat of silence.

Ranboo scoffs at that.

“I know.”

“It’s something I can appreciate,” Dream says. “Do you want me to tell you why you’re here?” 

Ranboo looks up at the man. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you feel drawn to this place Ranboo?”

“I don’t know,” Ranboo answers. “I just- I just wanted to be somewhere no one would find me, I guess.”

“No other reason?” Dream asks.

“No,” Ranboo responds, fixing his gaze on a spot in the distance. “People don’t really like me right now.”

He hasn’t spoken to anyone since they found out, finding the abandoned community house a safe place to hide for the night.

“For good reason,” Dream says, shrugging. “I mean, you betrayed your friends. You did a lot of bad stuff.”

Was it betrayal? It didn’t feel like it. 

“I was just trying to help.”

“By helping a terrorist? Multiple terrorists, actually.”

“They’re not- it’s not-”

“By lying to your friends? By burning down the community house?”

“I-,” he pauses, brow furrowing. “I didn’t do that,” he says slowly. “I didn’t do this.”

“How can you be sure?”

He feels like he’s been punched in the gut, the air leaving his body, his heart racing. 

The flashes of a raging fire against a dark sky return.

“You said- you said Tommy did this,” he chokes out.

“I was protecting you, Ranboo,” Dream says calmly. “If I had told everyone this was you, they would have demanded I lock you up.”

“But- but why?”

“Why did I protect you? Because I know you didn’t mean to do it. I know Technoblade was using you, taking advantage of you.”

Ranboo shakes his head violently.

“He wasn’t using me.”

“Come on, an accomplice who can’t even remember his crimes? It’s perfect.”

That’s not what it was, was it? Technoblade hadn’t even pretended to like him. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with him in the beginning. 

But his memories of the brief time he has spent with the other man are blurred at the edges. He doesn’t even know who he himself is, how can he know Technoblade?

How can he be sure of anything?

Dream pulls the memory book out of his inventory.

“I found this on you, after you burned this place down. You wrote about it all in here. I tore the page out about the fire, though,” he says, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. “That would have been incriminating. Well, more incriminating.”

The memory book. His heart flutters as he reaches for it, desperate for the comfort it brings, but Dream pulls it away.

“I don’t think I want you to have this back yet,” he says. 

“Why?” Ranboo asks shakily, close to tears.

“You haven’t earned my trust,” Dream responds. 

“But I won’t be able to remember anything,” Ranboo says, a rising panic constricting his chest. “I need that book to remember.”

Dream nods, shifting in the ash.

“That’s okay,” he responds calmly. “I’ll help you.”

...

It is later that morning when Dream meets with Tubbo in the meeting room. The kid looks much more aware than he did the day before, the bruise on his forehead retreating, standing behind one of the chairs around the table.

“How are you feeling?” Dream asks.

Tubbo nods.

“Better.”

“You found some healing potions?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The kid is tense, but his stare is icy. It makes him look old, the shadows in the room pulling at the premature lines on his face. 

For a moment, Dream sees the boy that once was, bright and excited, a warm smile resting easy on his face.

Did he do this? Did he carve those lines into the boy’s face?

Why does it matter? He pushes the guilt away. 

“I told you, Tubbo,” Dream says, sitting down. “You can’t trust anyone.”

The boy lowers his gaze, hands clenching around the chair in front of him.

“I have a plan, though,” he continues. “These people think they can disrespect you, they think you have no authority over them. It’s because there’s all these different factions; El Rapids, Manifoldland, Dry Waters. Citizens of your own country, taking your land and calling it their own.”

He leans in.

“El Rapids is gone now, I made sure of that. And with Quackity out of commission the others won’t do anything. If they do, off to the prison they go. Now, we just have to go after Manifoldland and Dry Waters. With my help, it will be easy.”

“You said I can’t trust anyone,” Tubbo says, looking up. “So how can I trust you?”

Trust is a flimsy thing. Easy to break, easy to snap. Why would such a fragile thing matter?

“I’m not asking for trust, Tubbo. I’m not offering it, either. I’m offering you power.”

It’s the last thing the boy could possibly have. He has no more friends, no more trusted allies. Power is the only thing left to grab at.

That, at least, Tubbo knows. 

“Fine,” the boy says. His gaze is cold. “And Tommy?”

Dream shifts, feeling a scowl rise onto his face. Losing Tommy, again, is not something he wants to be reminded of.

“I’m working on that,” he says. “Ranboo too. Don’t worry about it.”

“You should have put Ranboo in the prison.”

Dream shakes his head.

“No, no,” he says. “I have a better punishment than that.”

He's going to punish Ranboo, and he's going to punish everyone else who's gotten in his way. Everything is in his grip now.

Except Tommy.

The anger is there, threatening to overwhelm him, but the logical part of his mind knows he can’t go looking for the boy, not right now, not when he is still wrestling with the people for their respect. 

He is so close, so close to his goal.

It is Tommy or his server. He has to choose the server. Tommy will come later. It will always come back to Tommy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dream really said fuck them kids. the minors on this server can never catch a break lol. 
> 
> this chapter haunted me in my sleep, i don't know why it was so hard for me to write!!! i hope it wasn't underwhelming. cool character stuff is coming that i'm very excited about, i just had to push through this chapter to be able to get there lol.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to summarize this chapter but things are happening for sure! We got some Niki POV we got some Quackity POV we got some Techno POV and we got some hardcore angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note the prison in this is different to the real prison because I want it to be so that's how it's gonna be.
> 
> i hope y'all enjoy! comments are loved and cherished :)

Niki returns from L’Manburg, back to Dry Waters, the following night, after watching the reconstruction efforts of the country from afar. 

It is a night full of stars, cloudless, a full moon shining brightly in the sky, lighting her way. She makes the journey alone, sword hanging at her side. 

Dry Waters isn’t much of anything. Just two houses in the middle of the mesa biome. It was supposed to be a refuge, a place of peace and hope that L’Manburg had failed to be. Instead it’s empty, too quiet.

Fundy’s house has been empty for weeks now. He’s become a drifter, unsure of exactly where he fits in, floating from one place to another. Which means that, once again, Niki is left to herself.

Normally the loneliness is something she bears quietly, a weight on her chest she tries to push away. Tonight, it seems too big, too heavy, to ignore. 

She sits on the wooden stairs leading up to the porch, a slight breeze running through her hair, and she remembers.

She remembers a L’Manburg with yellow and black walls, green grass, a glimmering lake. She remembers old friends.

The image of Wilbur’s grey face returns to her, his empty eyes staring straight through her. She lowers her head into her hands.

She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye. 

One moment, Wilbur was there beside her, the next, he was gone.

And then the explosion, and then he was dead.

She never saw the body up close. Technoblade had released the withers before she could even process what had happened.

There was no funeral. 

Everyone moved on, rebuilding L’Manburg, and she was left with nothing. 

Like being abandoned in Manburg with Schlatt, left to defend herself, lying awake in prison, waiting for someone, anyone, to come to her aid. 

It has gotten colder. She lifts her head from her hands, staring into the desert wasteland around her. The nights in the desert lower to almost freezing temperatures. She knows she should go inside. She doesn’t want to.

The cold is a relief. The cold numbs her, until the aching in her chest is nothing.

Still, she can’t help but wonder. What is it about her that is so forgettable, so absolutely unremarkable?

Puffy finds her on the steps the next morning, rising sun warming her freezing limbs.

She sees the knight approaching from afar, but she doesn’t move to greet her, doesn’t move to meet her in the middle. She watches, with a cold sort of detachment, as Puffy goes from a speck in the distance to a discernible figure.

“Niki?” Puffy asks as she makes it to the wooden stairs, giving her a strange look. “What are you doing?”

Niki tries to smile, though her face resists, the frozen muscles stretching into something resembling the sought after expression.

“Nothing,” she says.

Puffy shifts in the orange sand.

“Okay,” she says, shaking her head. “Okay, well I’ve come to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“Dream is sending me to go find Tommy,” Puffy says. “Eret and I, I should say. We leave today.”

She hasn’t spoken to the king in a while. Of course when she knew him, he wasn’t a king of anything. He was a regular citizen of L’Manburg, and he was a friend.

“You’re going to find Tommy?”

“Yeah,” Puffy says, glancing away. “Yeah. That’s what Dream said.”

“And then what? Once you’ve found him?”

Puffy shrugs.

“I don’t know. He won’t say.”

And what of Tommy? He was once something like a friend as well. An annoyance, usually, but she had tolerated him. 

Now, years later, several wars later, she finds the thought of the younger boy fills her with a righteous sort of anger. 

“I’m worried, though,” Puffy says quietly, and Niki blinks, almost having forgotten Puffy was even still there. 

“Worried about what?” Niki asks.

“I just-” Puffy sighs. “I don’t think Dream has Tommy’s best interest at heart.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he might try to do something… something bad to Tommy.”

And that thought, the thought of Tommy actually paying for something he’s done, suffering for the pain he’s caused, fills her with joy. 

She must pause for too long, there must be a spark of glee in her eyes, because Puffy frowns.

“I’m worried he’s going to hurt Tommy, Niki.”

Niki almost laughs.

“And?”

Puffy just stares at her for a moment, as if seeing something new. Niki bristles under her close stare.

“Are you alright?” Puffy asks. “Do you want to talk about… about what happened?”

Niki rolls her eyes, exhaling.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m just saying, Tommy _is_ the one creating all the problems on the server. He blew up the community house. He should be held accountable for that.”

And Wilbur can remember him. Wilbur can remember that loud-mouthed, rude, insensitive little shit, and he stares through her like she’s nothing. 

“He’s a kid, Niki,” Puffy says. 

“ _I_ was a kid,” Niki says, louder than she means to. “We were all kids.”

Forced to be soldiers first, children last. No one has ever made excuses for her. She has lost everything, has paid countless times for crimes she didn’t commit. 

Why does Tommy get a pass?

“I’m sorry,” Puffy says gently, placing a hand on Niki’s shoulder. “I really am. I’m sorry about everything that has happened to you, and everyone else on this server. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” Niki says, pulling away from Puffy. “Sorry doesn’t change anything. You don’t have anything to apologize for, anyways. None of this was your fault.”

“But you think it’s Tommy’s?”

It has to be someone’s fault. Someone has to be accountable. 

“Yes,” she says. 

A pained expression crosses Puffy’s face.

“Niki, I’m sure you would want the same mercy extended to your younger self.”

“Mercy doesn’t exist,” Niki replies coldly. 

“Then what does?” 

“Justice. I believe in justice.”

“So do I,” Puffy says. “But I don’t believe in cruelty.”

There is something inside of Niki, something hot and angry, something that melts the ice in her, something that wants to scream and tear the world around her apart. 

She feels it flare inside of her. Her eyes flit away from Puffy’s. 

“Whatever Dream has planned, I’m sure it is fitting,” she says, standing. 

There is a moment where Puffy stares at her as if trying to see inside her head, as if trying to puzzle the pieces and put her back together. Niki is unyielding, her face stony. 

“Okay,” Puffy finally says. “I’ll see you… I’ll see you soon.” 

She turns around, pulling out an ender pearl, hesitating. 

“Take care of yourself Niki,” she says. “I really am sorry. I wish I could change your mind.”

She leaves, and Niki is alone with her thoughts again.

...

In the lobby of the prison, surrounded by dark stone walls and vaulted ceilings, Quackity begins to rethink his decision to come here.

The prison is intimidating from the outside, but on the inside there is a darker energy, something more sinister. Maybe it is the quiet, maybe it is the emptiness, the darkness. He can’t help but feel uneasy as Sam pats him down.

He had woken up the day prior, the left side of his face wrapped in gauze, the image of a sword slashing through the air burned into the back of his eyelids.

It was a rude awakening, and after he had calmed down, Karl had presented him with even more bad news.

“El Rapids is gone,” Karl had said nervously, after a full five minutes of trying to drag the news out of him. “It was blown up in the attack.”

That had taken a while to process. El Rapids had been the only successful thing Quackity had done on the server. 

He had never meant to do any harm, but after Schlatt it seemed that everything he did, everything he created, was penance for what he’d allowed to happen. El Rapids was something he was genuinely proud of, something he was glad to offer up as evidence that he was capable of good.

Coming to the prison was an impulsive decision. He doesn’t know why he’s here. His face and neck still sting, the healing potions working too slow for his liking, and his left eye is covered by a bandage. Karl had told him he would probably never see out of it again.

“Follow me,” Sam says after patting him down, nodding towards a narrow hallway. The man is the picture of seriousness. Though his face is masked Quackity can feel the severity, the tenseness, radiating off of him.

He follows the warden, eyes wide as he takes in everything around him. It is hard to believe one man created this whole thing.

The prison is so intricate, so complex, with winding hallways and trapdoors and endless corridors that by ten minutes in, he knows for sure he wouldn’t be able to get out on his own. 

“You made all this?” he asks, breaking the tense silence.

“Yes,” Sam replies simply.

“Shit, man,” Quackity says, shaking his head. 

The warden says nothing in response.

A few minutes later Sam stops in a smaller room. There is a desk in the far corner, a few books stacked on top.

“You need to sign these,” Sam says, holding the books out to Quackity. 

He does, as quickly as he can, only briefly scanning the pages. The nerves have set in, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

“And I need to make sure you’re not going to pull anything,” Sam says, taking the books back.

“I’m not,” Quackity says. “I’m definitely not-”

Sam splashes him with a greenish potion, which makes him double over, feeling a sudden heaviness in his limbs.

“Potion of weakness,” Sam says, standing above him. 

“Yeah, I kind of figured,” Quackity groans, straightening slowly. 

“I’m going to give you a torch,” Sam continues. “And then I’m going to open the vault. You have no more than ten minutes.”

Quackity nods, watching as Sam pulls a torch out of his inventory. 

“Ten minutes,” Sam repeats, handing the torch over. “That’s it.”

He pulls a lever on the side of the wall, and the wall opens up, retracting in an impressive show of workmanship. 

The wall opens up to a dark hallway, an iron door at the end of it.

“Go through there,” Sam says, pointing at the hallway. “The door is unlocked. It will lock once you enter. Only I can unlock it.”

“Okay,” Quackity says, tightening his grip around the torch. “Okay.”

He takes the first few steps into the hallway, glancing around with trepidation. He hadn’t expected to be so nervous to come here. When he had first woken up he had felt nothing but anger. Now, he is beginning to regret his decision.

Once he’s completely stepped into the hallway the entryway behind him closes again, a solid wall of obsidian at his back.

The torch lights his way as he continues down the hallway, towards the door at the end. He reaches the door, holding the handle for a moment before taking a breath and wrenching it open.

The vault is circular in shape, black, obsidian walls curving inwards. The ceiling is high above his head and his torch is the only lighting in the room. 

The flames illuminate a few feet in front of him, casting a circle of light around him. As his one good eye adjusts to the dark, he can make out a figure, in the middle of the vault.

His heart pounds in his chest as he approaches, the light finally settling on Technoblade himself.

He is kneeling in the center of the vault, his arms chained to the ground behind him. He squints at the sudden light, straightening. 

There is something so satisfying about being taller than the other man, about, for once, being the one who towers over the other.

“Technoblade,” Quackity says.

The anarchist’s jaw tightens.

“Quackity,” he replies, his voice hoarse.

“How are you enjoying your stay?”

This is the worst he’s ever seen Technoblade look. It’s only been a few days, but his skin is sallow, deep bags hanging under his eyes. 

Still he manages to have a smirk on his face, a smug expression despite his humble position.

“How are you enjoying the eye?” Technoblade asks in return. 

“You fucker-” Quackity sputters out. 

“I’m just making an observation.”

“You know, there’s no one else in here right now. Sam isn’t coming back for another ten minutes. I can make things a lot worse for you right now.”

Technoblade smiles crookedly, but he doesn’t say anything.

“What, is that funny to you?”

The anarchist doesn’t answer. He glances away, the smile slipping from his face, his eyes glazing over slightly.

“Hey asshole, I’m talking to you,” Quackity says, grabbing him by the front of his shirt.

Then, at least, Technoblade seems to pay attention, his gaze shifting back to Quackity’s face, inches from his own.

“What do you want me to say, Quackity?” Technoblade asks. His voice rasps, but that condescending tone is still there. “I gave you the option to escape.”

“And I didn’t take it, because I’m not a fucking coward,” Quackity growls.

“You’re not a coward?”

“No, I’m not.”

Technoblade moves quickly, jerking forward in the restraints, as if trying to hit him.

It doesn’t matter that his arms are behind his back, that there is no way for him to actually harm him. Quackity flinches away, a brief moment of terror, panic burning in his stomach.

Technoblade watches him with that smug expression. 

“You can call yourself whatever you want,” he says. “I know what you are.”

With wide eyes and heavy breaths, Quackity feels the rush of rage flow through him.

The hit is a resounding one, echoing through the chamber. For a moment, Quackity just stares down at Technoblade, holding his buzzing hand to his chest, unbelieving of what he had just done. 

Then, a bright crimson, flowing from Technoblade’s nose, staining the floor beneath him.

He had hit the Blade. He had made him bleed.

What is it that Fundy had told him, back when the Butcher Army was still around?

_If gods can bleed, then gods can die._

He has been so scared of Technoblade for so long. And now he is here in front of him, restrained, bleeding from a wound he has created. 

“You don’t fucking scare me,” Quackity says. He laughs, relief loosening the tension in his body. “You- you’re chained to the floor. You can’t do anything to me.”

Technoblade stares up at him, blood gushing down his face, a severity in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. 

“You will never interfere with anything on this server again,” he continues gleefully. “It’s over for you.”

“No,” Technoblade says. “It’s over for you.”

Quackity laughs again, loud and incredulous.

“What does that even fucking mean, man?”

“You’ve just handed all power and control on this server to Dream. You think you can take him down, now, with me in here?”

“Dream is- he’s different. He recognizes L’Manburg. He’s not trying to kill us.”

Technoblade scoffs bitterly, glancing away.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Technoblade says. “I just think it’s funny that you don’t see what’s going on.”

“You’re just mad that you can’t bend the server to your will anymore.”

“I was doing you all a favor.”

“A favor? You- you blew up a country. Almost twice. You’re a murderer and a terrorist.”

“What good has come to this server since the creation of L’Manburg, Quackity?” Technoblade asks viciously. “Government has no place on this server.”

“That’s not for you to fucking decide! You don’t get to decide how every person on this server lives!”

“So you’re going to deny what L’Manburg has done? What _you_ did, when Schlatt was still in power? You’re going to pretend that power doesn’t corrupt?”

“You are the power!” Quackity shouts. His voice echoes through the chamber. “ _You_ are the power. Anything that happens on this server that you don’t like, you have to step in. You have to get involved.”

“You came after me, when I was in retirement,” Technoblade says. “You want to talk about getting involved where you don’t belong?”

“Because you need to be held accountable for the atrocities you have committed!”

“And Dream doesn’t? You let him walk around free. After everything he has done to L’Manburg?”

Quackity shakes his head, his lips drawing into a thin, white line. He finds himself breathing heavily, tries to calm himself.

“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” he finally says. 

Technoblade has that faraway look in his eyes again, like he’s not totally present. 

“Did you hear me?” Quackity says. “I said I didn’t come here to argue.”

Technoblade blinks. 

“I came here to gloat.”

It was the only good news, when he had woken up, after learning that El Rapids was gone, after being told he was blind in one of his eyes. Technoblade was in prison, and he was never getting out.

“Because you are here, in a fucking cage, and you are never going to leave. You lost.”

The words are so satisfying to say out loud.

“I would be careful what you brag about, Quackity,” Technoblade says lowly. “Dream’s never liked you, has he? You’ll be in here soon.”

Quackity steps away from the other man.

“You’re wrong,” he says. The flames of the torch reflect in the anarchist’s eyes. 

Quackity turns to return to the iron door.

“You said you were going to kill me Quackity,” Technoblade says. “What happened to that?”

What is that? A snide comment, meant to remind Quackity of his failure? Or a request?

“This is worse,” Quackity says, facing the anarchist again. “This is worse than dying. I hope you rot in here.”

...

Quackity’s visit is the only thing to break the torturous monotony of the vault. When he leaves there is a part of Techno that wants to call out to him, insult him enough that he will stay, if only to hear another person’s voice.

The dark is not dark at all. That is what he has discovered. After an indeterminate amount of time images begin to swirl in the blackness, people and places and memories warped and twisted.

The voices do not help. They feed into the images that he tries to shut out, gives them names and permanence.

Violent images, bloody images, things he would only see in the worst of nightmares.

He tries to focus on other things, on the physical pain, on the tingling numbness in his limbs, on the sound of his breaths. 

Sometimes it feels like he’s sinking into the ground. Sometimes it feels like he’s choking on the air around him. Sometimes it feels like he’s floating, limbs light, body left behind.

He always comes back to the hard obsidian floor, body heavy from the potion of weakness the warden had splashed on him that still hasn’t worn off. Or maybe it is just the hunger that keeps him weak.

When does he stop fighting it? It is impossible to say. It’s all the same, every moment is the same moment again and again, and so it doesn’t really matter at all when it is that Wilbur appears in the corner of the cell.

It’s not Ghostbur. It’s Wilbur.

The smell of smoke announces his presence, as do the voices.

_Wilbur._

_Wilbur._

_He’s here._

_Real._

_Real._

_Not real._

_He’s here._

Wilbur doesn’t move, not at first. He stands in the far end of the cell, and the only way Techno can see him is by the small flame at the end of his lighter, the glowing ember at the tip of his cigarette. 

The tiny flame is light enough to see his twin’s face, handsome features turned sallow and sunken. 

He stands, and he smokes, and he doesn’t say anything, exhaling a puff of smoke every few seconds.

Time is nothing in the vault. Days could pass in a matter of seconds and it would feel like an eternity spent, chained to the floor. 

He doesn’t know how long Wilbur stands there, smoking. But the moment he appears the voices begin to buzz like a hoard of vicious wasps at the back of his head, and they don’t stop. 

_Wilbur._

_Wilbur._

_Talk to him._

_Don’t talk to him._

_Real. This is real._

_Wilbur._

The voices whisper, and they scream, and they whine and they fight and they curl in his ears and make him want to tear every hair out of his head, if they will just stop for a moment. They repeat the same word, over and over, until it becomes a meaningless blur of noise, a rising cacophony of repeated nonsensical syllables.

_Wilbur._

_Wilbur._

_Wilbur._

_Wilbur._

His head aches, pounds, with the echoes. Everything becomes secondary to it, the soreness in his limbs, the general weakness, the hunger pangs.

If he could scream, he would, just to drown out the awful noise.

In the darkness, color explodes in his vision, blinding light, brought on by the splitting pain.

He screws his eyes shut. The voices continue on.

There used to be grounding exercises for this. When he was a child, and the voices were overwhelming. 

In the dark, there is nothing to hold onto. It is like the waves of an ocean, the pull of a riptide, sucking him in until there is no awareness of anything except the drowning noise.

Until he smells the smoke, stronger than before, closer than before.

That is something to latch onto, something to grip amidst the chaos in his head, in the dark, in the cold.

He opens his eyes in a pained squint.

_Wilbur._

_Wilbur._

_Wilbur._

His twin looms above him, a yellow smile widening across his face.

“Hello Technoblade,” Wilbur says, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Did you miss me?”

It was a bad habit, the smoking. Something he’d started as a teenager, a help for the intense anxiety that often gripped him, something he’d fallen into again, in the caves of Pogtopia.

It was in the caves of Pogtopia when the madness had sunk in, like the biting cold which had seeped through the damp stone walls uninhibited. The icy chill, like water running down the stone, had eroded his brother, until he had withered away into nothing but the madness.

He had looked like he does now, standing above him, dark bags under his eyes, his cheeks sunken in, his once lively eyes shattered, a sick yellowness in them. 

Techno closes his eyes as the voices increase in volume, as his chest constricts painfully.

“Not very talkative today, are you?”

Somehow his lilting voice rises above the rest, and somehow it is more painful than the rest, sharp and piercing.

“You’re not giving me the cold shoulder, are you?” he hears him say. His voice is mocking. “What ever did I do to deserve that?”

Techno lowers his head, eyes still shut. 

“You can look at me, you know. I don’t bite.”

He hears the snapping of teeth, and then Wilbur’s laughter.

“Or maybe I do,” he says. “Who knows? Certainly not me. I’m a loose cannon, Technoblade. I’m unpredictable.”

_Wilbur._

_He’s crazy._

_He’s not real._

_He’s here._

_You’re crazy._

_You’re going crazy._

He opens his eyes to chase the voices away. His brother is crouched in front of him.

“You look like shit, man,” Wilbur says. He reeks of smoke. “What are they feeding you here?”

His voice sounds far away, muddled amidst the roaring chorus, the ocean of voices in Techno’s head. 

“Hey!” Wilbur exclaims, snapping his fingers in Techno’s face. “You paying attention to me?”

It is getting harder to focus. His brother fades in and out of his vision.

“I think I know what’s bothering you,” Wilbur says, his voice faraway. “You feel guilty, don’t you?” he asks, his eyes wide, shining with a dangerous sickness. 

That same sickness that drove Wilbur to screaming fits, days when he would tear his throat to shreds, shouting into the echoing caverns of Pogtopia. 

Techno could see it more than Tommy could. Tommy who lived in a world of perfect morals, of older brothers who could do no wrong, could not see the deep, irrevocable wound torn into Wilbur, bright and bleeding.

“You can answer,” Wilbur says, taking another drag from the cigarette, blowing the smoke into Techno’s face. The smell pulls him back, drags him back to the present. “You can tell me the truth. There’s no judgement here.”

Techno looks away, away from his twin’s intense gaze, away from a smile that doesn’t quite fit his face anymore. Too big, too wide, for a face that thin.

“You _do,_ ” Wilbur says, chuckling. His breath is warm against Techno’s neck. “You do feel guilty. You can’t hide things from me, Techno. You should know that by now.”

It had been like that since they were children. So much time spent together, they could read the tiniest change in expression. There wasn’t a secret that wasn’t shared between the two of them.

Techno remembers the first day, arriving at Pogtopia, Tommy greeting him at the entrance of the caves, taller and thinner than he remembered him being, eyes weary in a way they hadn’t been the last time he had seen him.

He had led him down into Pogtopia, where Wilbur was sat against the wall, arm in a sling. Tommy had helped him up and when Wilbur was finally standing, swaying on his long legs, Techno had looked into his twin’s eyes. 

Dark brown rimmed red. Swirling in hopelessness, a despair he had never seen in Wilbur before.

“Techno,” Wil had rasped, reaching forward with his good arm, grasping at Techno’s left shoulder like it was an anchor in a tempestuous sea. With a staggering step forward he had laid his head on Techno’s other shoulder, grip tightening, as if it were the only thing keeping him on his feet. 

He remembers restraining Wilbur in one of his fits, his twin begging for an end. 

Techno had never planned on restoring L’Manburg. He always was a staunch anarchist. But after seeing Wilbur in his decaying state, after seeing the way L’Manburg had corrupted his brother, it had become personal. 

And so he had told Wilbur that there was an end, that there was a way to end things without ending his own life. They could destroy L’Manburg, and leave, and never think about the place again.

Wilbur had sunk into his arms, like a puppet cut from its strings, sobbing.

It was the only comfort he could bring his twin. His was a language of violence, but what good was an axe and shield when the battles being fought were in the mind?

He had thought it was enough.

“It was so cold,” Wilbur says quietly, pulling Techno away from the vivid memory. The voices have quieted now, finally, as if listening in. 

Wilbur shakes his head, tapping the tip of his cigarette against the obsidian floor. 

“So _fucking_ cold. You remember. So cold our fucking breaths would freeze over. And I thought- what the hell am I doing? What the hell am I doing, living in a fucking cave, fighting for a nation that doesn’t even remember me? Living like a rat, scampering around in the dark, living off of scraps to save a bunch of traitors.”

He spits the words out, as bitter, as acidic, as the tendrils of smoke leaving his mouth.

For a moment he is quiet. 

“Are you cold Technoblade?” he asks abruptly.

The voices latch onto ideas, they hear words and repeat them for hours, until it is impossible to ignore. 

_Cold,_ they chant at the suggestion. _Cold, you’re cold, you’re cold._

“Do you feel it?”

_Cold. So cold. You’re so cold._

“It starts in your fingers, in your toes, and you don’t notice it at first. And then it creeps up your arms, your legs, and then one day you wake up and you’re nothing but the cold. It’s nice,” Wilbur says, leaning back. “It’s not scary. You shouldn’t be scared of it. It’s a wonderful thing, not to feel at all.”

He wouldn’t wear armor, Techno remembers. Wilbur would refuse the armor he crafted him. He would walk around, unafraid of mobs or humans alike. It was Wilbur daring the universe to send a stray arrow his way, a sword to pierce his chest. 

So Techno could never be found without armor, could always be found in front of Wilbur.

What else could he do? How else could he help a man numb to the world?

“Look at me,” Wilbur says suddenly. “Look at me. I want you to look at me.”

_Don’t._

_Look._

_Do it._

_Wilbur._

Techno raises his head slowly, looking up into Wilbur’s gaunt face. His skin stretches across his skull like it’s too tight of a fit, shadows pulling at the bags under his eyes. 

He smiles when Techno finally makes eye contact with him.

“Don’t feel guilty,” he says. “Really, don’t feel guilty. I know you’re the hero type, right? The brave warrior who comes in and saves the day, all quiet and stoic and with all these morals and ideals, all higher and mightier than the rest of us, blah blah blah,” Wilbur says, gesticulating with his ash-grey hands. “Ideals are overrated,” he whispers, like it’s a confession, a secret. “It’s all bullshit, you know. I tried it. It didn’t work out. You know what I learned? In the end, we’re all just animals. You try to appeal to people’s morals, to their supposed humanity. Doesn’t matter. In the end, all this is just a mad scramble for a foot up in the food chain.”

He stares into Techno’s eyes, gaze burning like a hungry fire.

“But I won,” he says. “I won. I refused to play the game. I ended the game. I wanted it to happen, Technoblade, I wanted to die. It was- you should have been there. It was glorious. All those pretty ideals, wiped away in an instant. Gone, just like that,” he snaps, the sound echoing through the vault. “Nothing. Why did I ever care?”

He squashes the cigarette onto the ground, the red glow dying out. Still, Techno can see Wilbur’s face, dark bangs hanging in his eyes.

“And then I gave Phil my diamond sword and I told him to shove it in- right here,” he says, thrusting a finger into the center of his chest. “Right here, I said ‘Kill me Phil, kill me’.”

With those words a dark stain begins to spread, right where Wilbur’s grey finger points, a ragged hole growing where an invisible sword pierces his chest.

The voices scream, they shriek, they howl and wail as Wilbur’s hand sinks into his chest, as the rapidly growing tear in his shirt reveals an ugly, ugly wound, stinking of death and decay.

Techno shifts, turning away from the gory scene, breaths becoming more labored, chest heaving.

“Oh come on, you’ve seen worse,” Wilbur says, grabbing Techno’s face, cold fingers digging into his chin as he forces his gaze back.

It is true, he technically has seen worse. He has seen bloodier, gorier scenes than this, he has seen, and inflicted, every type of death there is, he has watched the life bleed from countless faces, violent and harsh and unforgiving.

But this is his brother, a man who not long ago was a boy that he once knew well. A lighthearted, mischievous kid, too smart for his own good. 

There is none of that now, in front of him, in the crazed gleam in Wilbur’s eyes, laughing as his chest is torn open.

Techno squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenching where they are chained to the floor. Wilbur’s grip on his face tightens.

“You’ve got to let go,” he says. “That’s the only way to win. You’re too soft with Tommy. You should have killed him when you had the chance. I tried to blow the little fucker up but he’s like a damn cockroach.”

Techno had tried to kill him. He remembers that. 

He remembers the blinding rage, the crippling sorrow, at seeing Wilbur, dead and gone, lying in Phil’s arms. 

And Tommy, still playing hero, still trying to fight for a nation, a government, that had killed his brother. 

Maybe it was his own anger with himself, with his own inability to save Wilbur. Maybe it was the voices that he had allowed to take hold, that he allowed to fuel him.

That day is a blur in his memory. But he remembers clearly trying to kill his own brother. 

Housing Tommy, protecting him after exile, was his way of apologizing.

“He was never on your side,” Wilbur whispers. “He never cared. He’s proved it time and time again. He used you for what you had to offer; your shelter, your resources. But it’s like I said; he’s part of the cycle. He’s one of _them._ He wants his discs, that’s all. Another piece in the never ending struggle for power.”

_Kill him._

_Protect him._

_Don’t listen._

_Kill him._

_Never cared._

_Kill him._

“He’ll never learn. And this will never end.”

He can’t understand it. He can’t understand Tommy’s stubbornness, his refusal to understand.

L’Manburg is like an open wound bleeding red. It is a memorial to his brother’s sickness.

“Open your eyes, Technoblade,” Wilbur says, demanding now. Both of his hands come up to cup Techno’s face. “Open your eyes.”

There are memories of better times, distant times, when it was just the four of them, and there wasn’t any of this. 

What went wrong? When was the point of no return? Why hadn’t he been able to stop it, the madness that slowly poisoned his brother?

“Open your eyes,” Wilbur says. His hands are as cold as the day he died. “Open your eyes!” he shouts, spit flying in Techno’s face. 

He shakes Techno’s head with every demand, pulling painfully at his stiff neck. 

Techno keeps his eyes shut, lips drawn into a painful line, trying to weather the raging storm, the battering his brother is giving him. 

The screaming in his ears is becoming unbearable and his entire body aches with every harsh tug Wilbur gives him. 

He feels fingers prod at his eyes.

“Don’t, don’t-” he rasps, trying to pull away, but the hands are stronger.

“Open your eyes Technoblade,” Wilbur repeats, voice high and sharp. “Open your eyes.”

The fingers peel his eyes open.

Wilbur is nothing but a skeleton in front of him, his skin shrinking against his bones, his clothes sagging as his flesh rots away. His eyes tumble from their sockets, still staring up at him.

“There we are,” Wilbur says, rotting teeth set in a permanent smile in his ivory skull. He pats Techno’s cheek. His fingers are nothing but bone. “You just have to open your eyes.”

A wave of nausea overtakes Techno. He leans forward, as much as he can in the restraints, bile burning at the back of his throat. 

It is too much. The voices are so loud, Wilbur is too close. He feels sick _,_ like his insides are eroding away, decaying.

Cold, skeletal hands lead him towards his brother’s shoulder, thin and angular through the thin sleeve.

He is too weak, unable to resist, laying his head against his brother so that they are in an awkward kind of embrace, Wilbur’s hands leaving his face and circling to his back, holding him in place.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Wilbur says, patting his back. “I told you, this is what I wanted. I wanted an end.”

_You didn’t have to die._

It is a thought he can’t bring himself to say.

“Yes, I did,” Wilbur whispers. He almost sounds remorseful. 

_Why didn’t you tell me?_

Like when they were children, and there wasn’t a secret between them. To that, Wilbur gives no answer.

Time doesn’t exist in the vault. Seconds, minutes, days, months, years pass in just an instant, as the skeleton of Wilbur holds him, a last moment he was never given.

“Give me an end,” Wilbur breathes into his ear. “End it.”

And he fades to dust, burning ash, until there is nothing left but darkness and the voices. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WILBUR MY BELOVED....
> 
> i'm sorry i just had to throw wilbur in here somewhere. i loved his character so much and I think it's interesting to see the effects his actions still have on the other characters. tbh I don't think he actually believed some of the stuff he says to techno, I think that's more of techno's subconscious thoughts manifesting themselves as wilbur. 
> 
> also they're twins because I say so.
> 
> techno was so hard to write lol I'm not doing that again but everyone got to have their angsty moment so that was his. i know canon techno has different motivations and stuff but this is not canon compliant so I'm going to do what I want!!!!
> 
> thanks for reading!!!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream consolidates power on the server and then pays a visit to the prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yee yee we back with a dream-centric chapter. i wrote this all in the last two hours so hopefully it is coherent lolllll. dream is fun to write so I hope y'all enjoy!
> 
> comments are loved and appreciated :)

Manifoldland burns quickly, flames eating away at the single house within the borders, the tree that hangs over it. 

Dream watches, Tubbo standing to the side of him. Quackity would be here, but he is resting, still recovering. 

Jack watches as well, distraught, as he watches his little country burn.

“What the hell?” he says, voice a whiny quality that grates on Dream’s nerves. “Why- why would you do this?”

He turns to Dream, eyes shining with unshed tears. 

“L’Manburg does not recognize the sovereignty of your ‘nation’,” Dream says coldly.

“So you burned it?” Jack exclaims.

“Yes,” Dream replies. 

“You’re not the president of L’Manburg,” Jack says. “Since when do you dictate what L’Manburg does?”

“Since I allow him to,” Tubbo says. “He’s right; Manifoldland serves no purpose, and it infringes on L’Manburg’s borders.”

“Tubbo,” Jack pleads. “Come on, man. This is my land. I’ve had it since- since Wilbur.”

“Wilbur’s dead,” Tubbo says. “ _I’m_ president now.”

“And I can do something much worse,” Dream adds. “I can put you in the prison and then I’ll never have to listen to your complaining again. Would you like that better?”

Jack’s mouth slams shut. He watches helplessly, shoulders slumped, as Manifoldland is burned to the ground.

With every smoldering beam that crashes to the ground, with every wall that caves in on itself, Dream feels the triumph grow, until he is smiling ear to ear beneath the mask. 

They move on to Dry Waters next, travelling in silence, their footprints trailing behind them in the orange sand.

Dry Waters, much like Manifoldland, is nothing. Just two houses in the middle of the desert. Still, the factions serve as a threat to his authority. Like cracks running through a mask until, eventually, it falls apart.

“Bring Niki out,” Dream says to Tubbo. 

The boy hurries up the steps of the porch, entering the house without knocking. Dream waits, flint and steel shining in his grip.

Tubbo reappears in the doorway, followed by a disheveled looking Niki.

“What’s going on, Tubbo?” she asks, before her gaze falls on Dream. 

“Hello Niki,” he says.

“What is this?” she asks, her tone turned much colder as she addresses Dream.

“I’d like you to come join me outside,” he says. 

She stares at him, rooted in the doorway.

“It will be much more pleasant for you if you do what I say,” he adds. 

Tubbo pushes her forward a bit, and finally she moves, stiffly descending the porch steps.

“Now what?” she asks. “What do you want?”

“You’re a citizen of L’Manburg, aren’t you, Niki?”

“Yes,” she says slowly. 

“You have a house there?”

“Yes.”

Dream nods.

“That’s good. You don’t need this place, then.”

With a flick of his wrist, the porch is lit on fire. With a few more, the porch is completely enveloped.

“No!” Niki shouts, rushing towards the house. Tubbo pulls her back, as the heat grows, the stinging smoke blowing in their direction.

Dream backs away from the house.

“What are you doing?” Niki exclaims, still fighting against Tubbo’s tight hold. 

“I’m doing what I need to do to unite this server,” Dream says, approaching her. 

“That’s my home,” she says.

“L’Manburg is your home. The Dream SMP is your home.”

Eyes widened in shock, she watches as the fire spreads from her house to Fundy’s, the flames eating away at the orange wood. 

“What is wrong with you?” she asks hoarsely. 

Dream shifts, tearing his eyes away from the fires.

“What did you say?”

“What is _wrong_ with you?” she shouts. 

She doesn’t seem to be straining against Tubbo anymore, giving into his grip. Now, the shock in her eyes is joined by a burning heat, like the fires ravaging her house.

He doesn’t know why but the question makes him strangely defensive.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he says, fighting to keep the neutrality in his voice.

“I’m trying to keep this server together,” he adds. “I’m doing what is best for all of you. There’s nothing _wrong_ with me.”

“You- you are a horrible person!” Niki says with a ferocity he has never known her for. “You have taken everything from me!”

“I’ve given you everything,” he says with a rush of anger. “Everything that exists on this server is because of me.”

“Who do you think you are?” 

“I’m the owner of this server.”

“No, no, you are a sad, pathetic man, who takes and takes from everyone else so you can feed your own ego and prove to yourself that you are something!”

Dream raises his hand, feeling that flare of anger turn into a boiling pit of rage.

“Dream!” Tubbo says, and Dream looks at the boy, who shakes his head fervently.

“You know they talk about you,” Niki says. “I hear them.”

“Dream, come on,” Tubbo says.

“George and Sapnap. They talk about you.”

Dream stands, frozen, hand still raised.

“They think the same as me,” she says viciously. 

“Let’s go,” Tubbo says, releasing Niki. “Come on Dream.”

“They think that you are an egomaniacal, _evil_ man who never cared about them or anything else!”

This time he does hit her, sharp and swift. She stumbles, but stays on her feet, holding the side of her face.

“If I cared about anything you had to say, you’d be in the prison right now,” he says, fighting to keep his voice a cold kind of angry. He worries she can hear the shock in his voice, can see the shaking in his hands. “Watch yourself, Niki.”

“Fuck you,” she spits out.

His jaw clenches, he turns to say something, but Tubbo pulls him by the shoulder.

“We’re leaving,” the boy says. 

Dream shrugs Tubbo’s hand off of him. He is in charge here, not the kid. He isn’t afraid or affected by the words of a girl who has no power.

But he is afraid if he says anything else she will hear the shake in his voice, the burning tears in his throat.

He turns without another word, pearling away from the ruins of Dry Waters. 

In their return to L’manburg Tubbo glances at him frequently, side-eyeing him, but he ignores the boy’s eyes on him. 

His body is so tense it is painful, he feels hunched over, bowing beneath the weight of Niki’s words. 

_She’s lying._

But maybe she’s not. 

Maybe they do talk about him.

_Doesn’t matter._

It doesn’t matter. He reminds himself of that over and over as they approach L’Manburg. 

It doesn’t matter. Why would it?

In L’manburg, recently patched up, a small group stands near the rebuilt podium.

“What’s going on there?” Dream asks, breaking the silence between him and Tubbo.

The kid shrugs.

The two of them hurry up the stairs, approaching the gathered group.

It’s Fundy and Quackity and Ranboo. They look like they’re arguing, talking intensely until Fundy notices Dream, shutting his mouth quickly.

“Good morning,” Dream says to the trio. He places a hand on Ranboo’s shoulder. The taller boy draws into himself at the touch.

“Dream,” Fundy says. “Tubbo.”

“Yes, hello Fundy. What’s going on here?”

The group remains silent, an awkwardness hanging in the air.

“Nothing,” Quackity finally says, rubbing at the bandage over his eye. “I was just looking for you actually.”

“And you’re all standing around here doing nothing I guess?”

“It doesn’t concern you,” Quackity spits out. “I mean,” he says quickly, correcting his tone. “It doesn’t really matter and I have something important to talk to you about.”

Dream nods, tightening his grip on Ranboo’s shoulder.

“Fine,” he says. “We can talk.”

Quackity pulls away from the other two, and Dream lets go of Ranboo.

“Do something useful,” he says to Fundy. “Don’t just stand around here all day looking like an idiot.”

He follows Quackity into one of the houses.

“What is this about?” Dream asks, sitting down at the wooden kitchen table. “I hope you’re not going to be wasting my time.”

Quackity begins pacing in front of him, picking at the exposed part of his scabbed over wound. He stops abruptly, turning to face Dream.

“I want to rebuild El Rapids,” he says.

Dream is tempted to laugh in the younger man’s face, but reminds himself he’s not trying to make enemies.

“Why is that?” he asks slowly.

“Why? Because I built El Rapids. It was my country.”

Country is stretching it, in Dream’s opinion.

“Quackity, I’ll be honest with you. That is a useless endeavor.”

Quackity pales.

“No it’s not,” he says.

“Yes it is, and I’ll tell you why,” Dream says. “You wanted to be president of a country because of the power it would hypothetically give you, am I wrong?”

Quackity looks away.

“Schlatt made you feel powerless, right? So you became a member of the L’Manburgian cabinet, and you created El Rapids,” he says. “But El Rapids didn’t give you power. I guarantee you that I can give you more power here, in L’Manburg, as a member of the cabinet, than you could ever have in El Rapids.”

“Is that all you think I want? Power?”

“That’s all anyone ever wants, isn’t it?”

Quackity shakes his head. 

“El Rapids was more than just that,” he says. “Besides, you aren’t in charge of the cabinet. Tubbo is.”

“Tubbo’s not in charge of anything,” Dream says, leaning forwards. “He hasn’t been, not since he first became president. You know that. Before me it was you calling all the shots.”

Quackity hums in acknowledgment. 

“I can give you a country, Quackity,” Dream continues. “I can give you L’Manburg. Give up El Rapids, and you can have L’Manburg.”

Quackity stands completely still, mulling his words over.

“What about… about Karl and…” Quackity pauses, but Dream knows what names he’s going to say. 

“They’re not citizens of L’Manburg,” he says coldly.

“Could they be?”

_No. No. No._

Shouting erupts outside of the house, pulling Dream to his feet, the question going unanswered. He unsheathes his sword, Quackity hurrying behind him as he exits out onto the wooden docks of L’Manburg.

Down below, near where the obsidian walls once stood, is a tree on fire. Fundy and Tubbo are trying to put it out, but the tree is burned beyond saving, trunk turned black, fire eating away at the green leaves.

“Oh fuck!” Quackity exclaims, rushing down towards the scene as Dream trails behind at a more leisurely pace.

“She burned it down!” Fundy shouts, looking at Quackity and Dream as they approach.

“Who?” Quackity asks, staring up at the scorched tree.

“Niki,” Tubbo says, looking over at Dream. “It’s L’Mantree,” he says. “She burned it down.”

“You let her get away?” Dream asks.

Fundy glances down.

Dream scoffs as he watches the flames shrivel the remaining leaves.

“It’s a tree. It’s a fucking tree. Is that the worse she can do?”

“It’s L’Mantree,” Fundy says.

“It’s an important symbol,” Quackity adds.

“She can burn all the symbols she wants,” Dream says. “Symbols mean nothing to me.”

It’s pathetic, seeing these young men watch this shriveling, thin tree burn with a sober reverence. 

Let her burn a tree. If that’s the most rebellion she can muster up, then there is nothing to worry about.

_They talk about you._

What would she know? She knows nothing.

Adjusting his grip on his sword, tightening until his knuckles are white, he walks, his legs moving without any conscious direction. 

He wanders through the SMP, walking down the Prime Path, scanning the passing buildings. It is quiet. No one is out.

Until he passes Punz’s base. He can hear voices, bleeding out of the black stone walls. Familiar voices.

He plans on walking by as quickly as possible, but his feet slow. He is drawn in by those voices, drawn to the entrance of the base.

Karl, George and Sapnap are sitting within the walls, talking.

They look up as he passes. He freezes at the sight of them. They watch him with mixed looks. But George’s is one of disdain, and the emotion that makes him feel is a full body one, a feverish heat breaking out across his skin.

He moves on quickly.

Night falls, and still he wanders. He doesn’t want to spend the night in a cave, in a clearing in the woods, but he feels unwelcome on his own SMP. There is nowhere for him to stay.

His feet take him down the Prime Path, down towards the ruins of the community house. The lake reflects the light of the moon, the stars blurred in the rippling water. Debris still floats aimlessly on the surface.

Today has been a successful day. He knows it was, he tells himself it was. 

The entire SMP is under his authority now, consolidated under his power. Even the Badlands, though left independent, are under his control, on his payroll. 

There’s still Tommy, there’s always Tommy, but that will come later.

He had wanted to unite the server. He’s done it. Just like it was before. So why does it feel different?

He walks down the path stretching across the dark water, steps through the ashes of the community house. Some of the crafting tables remain, scorched black, stuck in the ground.

He remembers that joke, the way it made Sapnap laugh until he was crying, his choked snorts sending George into a fit of giggles. It wasn’t even that funny, but his friends’ laughter had sent him over the edge as well, laughing until he couldn’t breathe. 

He remembers fishing in this lake, sitting on the roof under a warm sun, with the original members of the server. It was a time when he wasn’t afraid to push the mask up, when he wasn’t afraid to show his face.

He remembers and he remembers and he remembers until the collapsed walls are filled with the echoing voices of people long gone. 

_Doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself. _You have what you want._

He pushes away at the rising emotions, at the weakness burning in his chest.

He picks up a chunk of wood, throwing it through an empty window frame. It splashes in the water outside.

He picks up a broken off piece of a ceiling beam, slamming it into the ground over and over, punching a hole through a crafting table in the ground.

He takes a part of the stair railing, smashing in a part of the wall still standing. It falls through, into the lake, crashing, a cloud of ash rising up. 

“I don’t care!” he screams at the blackened walls. 

With shaking hands, and a racing heart, he pulls out an ender pearl. He throws it as far as he can, landing in the soft grass outside of L’Manburg. He throws another one, and another one, until he lands on the beach looking out on the prison.

The guards pace the roof, but he pays them no attention.

He pearls to the entrance, entering the lobby with hurried steps.

“Sam!” he calls out, voice bouncing around the high ceilings. “Sam!”

The warden emerges from a side room.

“Dream?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dream says. “Nothing. I need to talk to the prisoner.”

“Technoblade or-”

“Technoblade,” Dream says. Something crawls beneath his skin, itching and clawing at him. 

“Why?”

“I don’t need to give you a reason,” Dream says. “Take me to see him, now.”

“Dream-”

Dream unsheathes his sword, pointing it at Sam’s chest.

“Now,” he says.

Sam pauses before nodding sharply.

“Follow me then,” he says stiffly.

Dream does, heavy footsteps echoing as he trails impatiently behind the warden. 

He feels scattered, unable to concentrate on any one thing. There is just that feeling in his chest, something heavy and wrong, stuck inside of him, ballooning until he gasps for breath.

Sam looks back at him once or twice, but he keeps up his pace seeing the way Dream is unrelenting.

They reach a room where Sam stops, turning to Dream.

“You need to take off your armor,” he says.

“No,” Dream says, shaking his head. “I keep the armor on.”

“You can’t have armor on or anything in your inventory.”

“I can do what I want,” Dream says, approaching Sam, drawing himself up. “I’m keeping my armor, and I’m keeping everything in my inventory.”

Sam shifts.

“What’s going on?” he asks, the same question as before, feeding the flaring anger in Dream’s stomach. “What’s wrong with you?”

That question sends Dream reeling, backing away from Sam. 

_What’s wrong with you?_

“You- I’m…” he stutters, remembering the way George and Sapnap watched him, the look in their eyes. 

“Let me in there,” he chokes out. “Let me talk to him.”

“Dream, you commissioned me to build this prison with maximum security regulations. You gave me the position of warden. I can’t allow anyone, even you, to enter the vault without adhering to those regulations.”

“I need to talk to him!” Dream screams. 

“Then take off your armor,” Sam says. “And give me your weapons.”

A feverish heat warms his skin, creates a thin layer of sweat over his masked face. His thoughts are jumbled, tangled, like a knotted ball of string. 

With shallow breaths he unclasps his armor, fingers slipping and fumbling more than he would like. Too stiff, too clumsy.

He throws the armor down on the ground along with his sword and shield.

He stands there, sucking in what air he can, as Sam picks up his items. A shiver races down his spine at the feeling of being so exposed. He feels so wrong, so completely vulnerable, shivering in his forest green hoodie.

“I can only give you a few minutes,” Sam says slowly. “That’s it. Okay?”

Dream nods quickly. His chest feels too tight.

The wall opens up as Sam pulls at a lever in the wall. A dark hallway leading to an iron door.

“Take this torch,” Sam says, pulling one out of his inventory, handing it over.

Dream takes it quickly, gripping it tightly to hide his shaking hand.

He heads off down the hallway, not waiting for Sam to say anything more. He moves at the same unrelenting pace, marching towards the iron door. 

He flings it open, walking out into the cold darkness. 

“Technoblade!” he yells out, the flames of his torch casting shadows on the surrounding walls. 

There is a time bomb in his chest, a ticking, pounding heart that tells him he doesn’t have long before he explodes.

Technoblade is there, in the middle of the vault, kneeling, his head lowered. His skin is yellowed, sallow, in the flickering light of the flames.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dream asks, stopping in front of him.

Technoblade says nothing. 

“What- what is _wrong_ with you?” 

Still Technoblade does nothing. He doesn’t even look up. 

“Answer me,” Dream says. His limbs tingle, blood rushes in his ears. He kicks out at Technoblade. “Answer me now.”

There is nothing. No response. 

The quiet is horrible, it is the emptiness screaming in his ears. 

He drops to his knees, in Techonblade’s line of vision. The man’s dark eyes are glazed over, slightly catatonic. 

Dream doesn’t notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care. 

“You’re an idiot you know,” Dream says, nodding. “You’re- you’re so…”

He lowers his own head, feeling the pull against his neck, the blood rushing to his head. 

It feels as if breathing is a manual task now, something he has to remind himself of. 

_Breathe, breathe, breathe._

“I won,” Dream says once he’s caught his breath. “I won and you lost and I am more powerful than you will ever be. I have everything and you have nothing and I am so, so fucking _happy_ , I’m happy, Technoblade, I really am.”

Why did he say that? It is an obvious lie. 

Isn’t that how he’s supposed to feel, though? Isn’t that what he’s supposed to feel after gaining everything? Happy?

“You- I am better than you! I am smarter than you, I am stronger than you, I am more powerful than you! I have everything, and you have nothing!”

He had always seen Technoblade as a strategist, as a worthy opponent, with an intellect to match his own. The biggest threat to his power on the server, the only person who could take him down on their own.

Ever since their duel, ever since his first fight with the man, coming away scarred, he had seen Technoblade as something a little more than anyone else.

And he’s won. He’s beaten him.

So why does this feel so wrong? Why has the triumph burned away, shrinking and shriveling into a bitter taste in his mouth? 

“You could have killed me. You could have killed us all. But I- I outsmarted you. You never- you should never-,” he stumbles over his words, pushing past the tightness in his chest. “I told you Philza was a weakness. I told you that. I was right. I was right.”

But then there is that doubt, that creeping suspicion that there is something he doesn’t know. 

“Why would you do this?” Dream asks, quieter now. “Why did you turn yourself in?”

Dream could understand it, in a logical kind of way. In the way he sees people like puppets, like chess pieces. Move one here, the other moves there. Mechanical.

But it just doesn’t make sense. It can’t make sense.

“You’ve given up your life for one man,” Dream asks. “ _How_ can this be worth it? How?”

The answer is that it’s not. It’s not worth it. He knows that. People can’t be worth the power, the control.

“You don’t make sense,” he says, staring into those faraway eyes. “You don’t- I can’t….” 

Power is what people want. That’s all people want. They fight each other for it, they massacre each other for it. Technoblade has certainly committed his fair share of violence for that power. 

And he just gave it all up.

And still he sees George and Sapnap, watching him, hears their whispering. 

“I don’t understand you!” Dream shouts, all that rage and frustration and crawling emotion erupting. 

He stands, feeling the itch beneath his skin, the sudden need to get up and move and purge himself of the uncomfortable feeling. 

“I don’t- why? Why?”

The mask is too tight. That’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s suffocating.

He wrenches the mask from his face, fingers as white as the porcelain. He feels the scar, the raised, roping tissue, without ever touching it. It burns like it did when it was first carved into his face.

It was from that duel, so long ago, so vivid in his memory. It was Technoblade’s sword that slashed the mark into him, that scarred him forever. 

“You did this to me,” he says and Technoblade is still somewhere else. He lifts the man’s head by his hair, pulling his head back, forcing him to look up at his marred face. “Do you even remember?”

It feels like the start to everything. The itch beneath his skin, the uncontrollable anger, the never-ending quest for _more, more, more._

“This is your fault,” he says. “All of this.”

He wants the anger to return. The anger that pushes him, that energizes him. Now, he just feels a heaviness that pulls him to the ground once more.

“It’s not worth it,” he says. The words are for himself. “It’s not worth it!” he yells, if just to hear the words repeated back to him in the echoes. 

A hand comes around, grabbing him by the shoulder, yanking him to his feet. 

He lashes out, twisting around, throwing a messy right hook.

“Dream!” Sam exclaims, catching the punch.

“Don’t touch me,” Dream growls. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“I can’t let you stay in here,” Sam says, grip tightening around his hand. “I shouldn’t have let you in in the first place.”

Dream fights against him, resisting his hold, but he is too scattered, too drained. Sam manages to pull him in, Dream’s back against his chest.

“Let me go!” he shouts, his words slightly slurred. 

His vision has started blurring at the edges. Sam is holding him too tightly, he can’t breathe. His gasping breaths, the repeated slurred demands to be released, are the only things he can hear over the ringing in his ears.

Sam listens to none of it. He drags Dream from the vault until Dream eventually goes limp in his arms.

Things become distant. He notices with a cold detachment that he can’t feel his limbs. He feels disconnected from everything, like he’s left his body behind.

He comes back to himself in the room outside the vault, lying on the cold floor, curled into himself. 

Sam stands over him, watching. He looks away when he sees the clarity return to Dream’s eyes.

“You okay?” Sam asks, still not looking at Dream.

Dream shifts on the ground, sore in an unnatural way. His head pounds.

“I’m…” he lifts his head slightly from the floor. “Where’s my mask?”

Sam points to a chest in the corner of the room.

“Over there,” he says. “I’ll get it for you.”

There is a tenseness in the air, an unbearable heaviness. A bone-deep exhaustion runs beneath his skin, pulling him down into the ground. 

Sam returns, mask in hand. He still won’t look at Dream.

“I don’t want it,” Dream says. “I don’t….”

“You don’t want to put it on?”

Dream shakes his head in a minuscule movement, barely a twitch.

“No,” he rasps. “Not now.”

Sam nods. He still won’t look at Dream.

“You’ve seen my face before,” Dream says. He knows it is different now, repulsive even, but he wants Sam to look at him, to see him. “You can look.”

“I know,” Sam says.

“Then what?”

“You’re…” Sam starts, hesitating. “You’re crying, Dream.”

Dream freezes.

“No I’m not,” he whispers.

Sam doesn’t respond.

“I’m not crying,” Dream says, voice rising defensively.

Still, he can’t stop a curious hand from rising to his face, ghosting over his cheeks. His trembling fingers come away wet.

“I’m not crying!” he shouts, even as he feels the tears streaming down his face. 

_What’s wrong with you?_

He hears Sam say it. 

“Nothing!” he yells. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”

The words don’t stop the horrible, painful, empty feeling inside him, eating away at him. 

He pulls himself to his feet. His legs shake beneath him. 

“Stop asking me that,” he rasps. 

“I didn’t say anything, Dream,” Sam says slowly. “I didn’t ask you anything.”

“Yes you did,” Dream says. “You- I know you’re thinking it. Are they all thinking it?”

Do they whisper about it, when he can’t hear? Do they talk about him like a sick man, terminally ill, with a morbid curiosity? 

_What’s wrong with him?_

_I don’t know. I think he’s gone crazy._

_Crazy?_

_Yeah, delusional._

“Dream, you need to calm down,” Sam says. 

“Do they talk about me?” Dream asks. 

“Who?” Sam asks. “What are you talking about?”

“George!” Dream yells. “Sapnap! Do they talk about me? Do they think I’m crazy?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I- I don’t really talk to them.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Dream says. “There’s-”

He scrubs at his face aggressively, wiping the hot tears away. 

He doesn’t know why he’s crying. He doesn’t want to be crying. He doesn’t want Sam to see him like this. He doesn’t want to see himself like this.

Sam takes him by the arm, leading him back down to the ground, sitting beside him, their backs against the wall. 

Dream cries, ugly and loud, resting his head in his hands as the sobs wrack his body. 

_What is wrong with you?_

He can’t place it. Or he doesn’t want to. It’s there, needling away at him. He can’t accept it, so he ignores it, the thing that is really wrong with him. 

“What are you doing, Dream?” Sam asks after he has quieted, after a beat of silence.

Dream shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. His racing heart is beginning to slow. 

“What I said,” Dream finally says. “What I told you I would do.”

“And it makes you like this?”

“I’m fine.”

Sam nods, folding his arms across his chest.

“I can see that,” he says. “I heard about Manifoldland and Dry Waters,” he adds a moment later, when Dream doesn’t say anything more.

“Yeah,” Dream says. “That’s part of- of what I said I would do.”

Sam looks at him before glancing away.

Dream doesn’t know what it is. Maybe the exhaustion, or the loneliness, or that feeling of deep, deep wrongness burrowed in his chest.

He tells Sam everything, he spends the entire night telling him every little detail of everything that has happened up to this point, everything he has done, everything he wanted to do, pouring out everything, letting it out into the open.

He wants to empty out whatever it is beneath his skin, wants to clear out his head until there is nothing left inside of him, nothing that aches or throbs in pain.

He doesn’t need George or Sapnap. He needs to continue on, without strings to hold him back. He needs to let go of all this stuff that has been building up in him, needs to cut it loose so he can move on.

Sam listens to every word he says. In the morning, when Dream leaves with as much urgency as he entered the prison, he stands in the lobby of the prison, staring blankly at the wall, reflecting on what he was told.

  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wonder what sam is gonna do now that he knows EVERYTHING that dream has done thus far.... hmmm....
> 
> fun stuff to come and we'll be checking in with the characters we haven't really heard from recently!!!!


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ranboo is confused, Puffy and Eret are looking for Tommy and Niki and Jack are plotting some stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit of a shorter chapter in preparation for a longer one coming up. don't know how long that one will take me but here are some crumbs in the meantime.
> 
> also I really don't know the exact timeline for this story and I'm not about to read through my own writing so the math of the days might be a bit off pls forgive me if it is lol my brain is very small. idk who would go through and like map this all out and call me out on it but there is a slim possibility someone will so I just want to clarify ahead of time. i am a writer not an adding numbers person.
> 
> I hope yall enjoy!!!! comments are loved and appreciated and cherished and adored!!!

Ranboo walks down the Prime Path, one thudding step at a time, one foot in front of the other, tall grey skies stretching out into a faraway horizon that his eyes are glued to.

It takes another step, then another step, another foot in front of the other before he stops abruptly and realizes he has no idea what he is doing.

The air is still, the grass on the side of the path stiff, the breeze nonexistent, stagnant.

He tears his eyes from the horizon, slowly taking in his surroundings as a fiery panic begins to spread through him.

He is on a hill, looking over L’Manburg, near Tommy’s old house. The wooden steps are just a few feet ahead of him.

He has no memory of walking here, has no memory of why he is here, what he is doing. There is no day in his head, no indication of a time in the cloudy skies above.

With an instinct that now dictates his actions as the fear fogs his mind he reaches into his pocket, patting around frantically before yanking his hand back out.

“It’s gone,” he says to himself. “I knew that. It’s not there. I knew that.”

Dream took the memory book. Dream has it. He knows that. He remembers that. 

He’s not allowed to write in any other books, he knows that too. Dream said that. He can’t remember when. But the words float around in his head.

_No books. No books. No books._

Another pair of footsteps sound across the path. He whips around, feeling jittery as he almost collides with Tubbo.

Tubbo, who walks with his head lowered, eyes laser focused on the ground, stops just short of Ranboo, looking up into the taller boy’s face with a scowl.

“Move,” he says, the one word cold and harsh, an arrow that pierces Ranboo’s already aching heart.

He hasn’t spoken to Tubbo since the festival. Still, right now, in the midst of an overwhelming unease he can’t shake, the other boy’s presence is somewhat placating.

“Okay,” Ranboo says. “I’m just- I’m not really… I’ll move, yeah, I’ll just move, that’s fine.”

Tubbo watches him with narrowed eyes as he stutters, awkwardly stepping off of the path and into the grass.

“I was just walking, I guess, I don’t really know, actually. I don’t really know what I’m doing, to be honest,” he continues, rambling, as Tubbo starts on his way again, unresponsive. 

“Tubbo,” he calls out, the boy rapidly continuing down the path.

He freezes at his name, back still turned to Ranboo.

“What day is it?” Ranboo asks. His hands twist in the front of his suit jacket, crumpling the dark fabric. “You don’t have to answer that,” he adds. “I just- I don’t know- I don’t know what day it is.”

Tubbo turns to him.

“It’s Tuesday,” he says.

“And how many- how many days has it been since the festival?”

“Four.”

“Four days,” Ranboo repeats. 

“Yes.”

“What- what have I been doing, these past few days?”

Tubbo stares at him.

“Please,” he adds.

“You were there, the other day,” Tubbo says. “In L’Manburg. With Quackity and Fundy. That’s all I know.”

“I don’t remember that,” Ranboo whispers. 

Tubbo stares at him a moment longer.

“Tubbo, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t- I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I can’t help you with that.”

“Please, I need-” he steps forward, but Tubbo steps back.

“I can’t help you with anything,” Tubbo says. 

He turns around and Ranboo’s stomach sinks as he begins to descend the steps.

“Wait!” Ranboo yells, chasing after him. “Please, just wait.”

“What do you want?” Tubbo asks venomously as Ranboo catches up to him.

“I just- don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be alone.”

“I don’t care,” Tubbo says. “I would like to be alone.”

“There’s something happening to me. I don’t understand it and I can’t- I need-”

He doesn’t know what he needs. He needs the memory book. 

_No books. No books. No books._

“Get away from me!” Tubbo shouts, shoving him away. Ranboo stumbles down the last few steps, tripping over his long legs.

“Get away from me,” Tubbo repeats. He has gone stiff, shoulders pulled back, like an animal backed into a corner.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Ranboo says, his tone pleading. “I’m sorry about what happened, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear.”

“You said I could trust you,” Tubbo says. The words are short, clipped, but Ranboo can hear the anger in them. 

“You can,” Ranboo says. “I meant that.”

“No you didn’t,” Tubbo says. “You lied to me. You betrayed me and you betrayed L’Manburg.”

“I didn’t betray you,” Ranboo says softly.

“You helped Technoblade!”

“I just wanted to help my friends.”

“I thought _I_ was your friend.”

“You were. You are.”

“You were going to watch L’Manburg get destroyed and do nothing about it.”

“Why is it always about L’Manburg?” Ranboo asks. “Why is everything about sides?”

“I’m the president of L’manburg!”

“What about your friendships? What about Tommy?”

“Don’t talk to me about Tommy,” Tubbo snaps, rushing forwards until he stands inches from Ranboo, staring up into his face. “Don’t you _ever_ mention his name again or I’ll put you in the prison and I will make sure you never get out.”

Tubbo almost looks feral, mouth drawn back in a snarl, eyes wide and wild, face flushed.

“I am doing what is best for my nation. I don’t ever want to hear you pretend that you know what this is like because you don’t and you never will.”

An icy chill fills Ranboo’s body, needles stabbing at him, twisting in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Please,” he whispers. “Dream, he’s-”

“I don’t care what Dream does to you,” Tubbo says. “I don’t care.”

He steps away, smoothing his shirt before hurrying down the path again.

Ranboo stares after him, watching as he disappears into the grey fog.

...

It is a few days after Manifoldland and Dry Waters are burned to the ground that Niki shows Jack the room, or cavern really, she has been constructing beneath her bakery. 

“What the hell is this?” Jack asks as he descends down a winding set of stone stairs, carved into the rocky ground.

Niki turns, haloed by the bright flames of her torch.

“This is where we’ll be safe,” she says before continuing on.

The SMP, L’Manburg specifically, has become increasingly tense, a tense that runs beneath the surface, barely visible from above but palpable in the quiet expressions of the people. After the destruction of Manifoldland and Dry Waters, after the burning of the L’Mantree, caution and suspicion are rife amongst the people.

Jack has been staying with Niki, though he wanders during the day. That is when she digs, hour after hour, mindless work that allows her to drift into walking dreams, almost tangible fantasies.

The cavern is not very large. There is still work to do, but she has found that she can’t wait any longer. Not when sleep continues to evade her, not when things have become so tense. It feels like there is an explosion waiting to happen, and she would prefer to be holding the detonator when it does.

Jack stops at the entrance, at the foot of the stairs, staring out at the wet stone walls.

“Is this what you’ve been doing for the past few days?”

“Yes,” Niki says, placing the torch on the wall. The floor is slick, the walls are not yet smooth, but it is enough for her. 

“I don’t understand what this is.”

She turns to him, a strange excitement filling her.

“I have a plan Jack,” she says.

“A what?”

“A plan. To get back at all of them.”

Jack frowns, confused.

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

“Don’t you want to get back at them?” Niki asks. “Don’t you want them to pay for what they’ve done?”

“Who is they?” Jack asks.

Niki shrugs. 

“All of them.”

Jack’s eyes wander for a moment, but Niki feels that excitement, that impatience, the need for him to hear her. She gets closer, eyes widening.

“They burned our homes down, Jack. They don’t care. They continually ignore us, push us to the side like we don’t matter. Even when Wilbur was here it was the same. Don’t you want to get back at them?”

Jack’s eyes shift back to hers.

“What are you suggesting we do about that?” he asks.

“I say we break Technoblade out of prison and with his help we burn L’Manburg to the ground.”

She says the words with giddiness, with a glee she doesn’t even try to contain.

Jack receives the words with an expression of shock, a widening of the eyes.

“You’re joking,” he says in a strangled voice.

“No.”

“You’re… you’re… yes you are. You’re joking. That’s not funny. That’s not a funny joke.”

“I’m not joking Jack.”

“What the… how… what are you….” he sputters. “Are you fucking crazy?”

“No,” Niki says. “No, I’m not. I’m tired. I am tired of being ignored. I’m tired of losing everything over and over again. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course I am, but this is… it’s crazy. We are _not_ blowing up L’Manburg.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Why not?” Jack hisses. “Because our friends live there, Niki.”

“Friends?” Niki laughs. “Tubbo watched your country burn, Jack. No one stood up for you, either. They never respected you.”

Jack shakes his head, closing his eyes.

“What you are saying is fucking _crazy.”_

“It’s not crazy, Jack. I’m not crazy. How else can all of this end? We burn it to the ground and then we can move on.”

“What, are you going to kill everyone there?”

“I don’t want anyone to die,” Niki says, though maybe that’s not the complete truth. “But L’Manburg is a cancer. Think about it Jack. A world without L’Manburg. We can leave, and we can do whatever we want and no one will ever take anything from us ever again.”

Jack sighs, shoulders slumping slightly.

“This sounds awfully similar to something that happened a few months ago,” he says. 

“Well maybe Wilbur was right,” she says. “Maybe we need to finish what he started.”

Jack shakes his head.

“How are you even planning on getting Technoblade out of prison?” he asks after a beat of silence. “That’s what I want to know. Because if I hypothetically, and I mean hypothetically, agree with you about L’Manburg, there is no way you can get him out of there, and I’m not willing to die for that asshole. Come to think of it, why are we helping him?”

“Because I’m sure he would love the chance to destroy L’Manburg.”

“Yeah I know that, he tried to kill us all a week ago.”

“He’s a means to an end, Jack. You don’t have to like him, because I don’t either, but we can use him. He’ll be in our debt.”

“But- but Dream stopped him last time. He was going to kill us all, and then Dream stopped him.”

“Dream can’t stop me.”

Jack raises an eyebrow at that.

“I mean you’re not the best at PVP, Niki, I’m not sure-”

“I don’t need to be good at PVP,” Niki interjects. “Dream has nothing on me. I have nothing left for him to take. You know what they say about a woman who has nothing left to lose.”

“No, I actually don’t, but I think I can infer based on what you’re saying to me,” Jack says, glancing around the room again. He exhales, shaking his head.

“This is crazy,” he mutters.

“But will you help me?”

“I don’t- you haven’t explained anything to me. You haven’t explained how the hell you’re planning on getting Technoblade out of prison, and I think I would like to hear about that before I decide on anything.”

Niki smiles.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got someone on the inside.”

...

Outside of the Dream SMP, on lands claimed by no faction, the woods are thicker, wilder, darker. The trees grow closer together, the bushes push their way onto long forgotten paths and erase them from the vision of the naked eye.

Out here, Puffy’s tracking skills are put to the test.

It is the reason Dream sent her to find Tommy, she knows. How he knew about those particular skills, she doesn’t know.

Eret follows behind her, watching her in silence as she looks for footprints, for broken sticks, for branches pushed aside unnaturally. 

A dog follows along beside her, sniffing at the foliage, searching for the scent ingrained in the piece of fabric Dream had given her before they had left.

Sometimes it is a dead end. An animal or a mob that leaves a trail of broken twigs behind them. Other times, though, the dog barks with excitement, or she finds a torn piece of red shirt, and her heart pounds at the idea that Tommy could be just around the corner, just around the bend, hiding in the trees.

He never is. As they make their way deeper and deeper into the forest Tommy continues to evade them.

They sleep short nights, start early days, but still, Tommy is nowhere to be found.

She hasn’t thought about what she will do when she finds Tommy. It is something she pushes away, a problem for another time. 

The long walks are usually filled with silence. A tense silence, though not necessarily a hostile one. 

Sometimes the silence is bearable, but other times it begs to be filled.

She asks questions, benign questions that don’t mean anything, and Eret responds with a reserved politeness, a formality that doesn’t encourage more conversation. 

Why Eret was asked to come along with her, she doesn’t know. He doesn’t get in the way, there when she needs him, to the side when she doesn’t, but he doesn’t really add anything in terms of skill.

And his presence breeds questions, endless questions that rattle around inside her brain as they traverse the thickening forests.

She knows the history of the Dream SMP, has heard the stories of the first wars of the server, the dramatic retellings of what Eret had done. But she has only ever seen the Eret before her, now. Courteous and quiet, noble in a way that isn’t loud but is seen in the way he carries himself, the way he walks and talks.

The Eret she is told about is a monster, a man unaffected by loyalty, by friendships, motivated by an all-consuming greed.

She doesn’t ask, though, pushing through the wild undergrowth.

She does notice that he grows tenser at a certain point, slowing down every few minutes and glancing around.

“What?” she asks as he stops again.

“Nothing,” he replies, shaking his head. “I just- I thought I recognized this place.”

“Do you?”

He pauses.

“No,” he says. “No, I don’t.”

“You sure?”

He nods.

“I’m sure.”

Puffy continues on, the dog brushing against her side. The small conversation they had just had was like a dam breaking, and suddenly she can’t stop the words from leaving her mouth.

“Why did you do it?” 

She looks ahead, not turning back to face him.

The silence stretches taut between them.

She almost takes the words back, almost apologizes for overstepping, for asking a question she shouldn’t have. The question is vague enough that he might not even understand what she’s asking, but it must be on his mind because he finally speaks.

“I don’t know,” he says. His voice is heavy. “I was younger. I thought I knew what I wanted.”

She pushes onwards for a moment, taking the words in.

“What did you think you wanted?”

“Power.”

He says the word like it’s a curse. She supposes, for him, it probably is. 

“We were fighting a losing war,” he continues. “We had nothing. We were being slaughtered. Dream offered me power. Resources, security. That was more than I had. That was more than I thought Wilbur could give. So I took it.”

She doesn’t have to ask if he feels the regret so many claim he doesn’t. She can hear it plainly in his voice. 

He goes quiet again. 

The day is becoming darker, the shadows lengthening. 

It seems that everyone on this server has a shadow, sticking to their feet, lengthening as time goes on, dark and haunting. 

“It was a mistake,” Eret says into the silence, minutes later. “Obviously. I sacrificed everyone I knew for an empty throne.”

“An empty throne?”

Eret scoffs.

“I have no real power. Dream never intended on giving me anything. He kept it all for himself.”

Puffy shakes her head.

“I don’t think what Dream has is real power,” she says. “He inspires fear in others which is how he controls them, but someone who is so obsessed with control fears the loss of it. His power is based on that fear, therefore it is built on a shaky foundation.”

“What is real power, then?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Is there any pure, uncorrupted form of power?”

He doesn’t answer. 

“I don’t think your throne is empty. I think it is what you make of it,” she continues. “Maybe that’s real power, being able to make your own choices. Not being beholden to the whims of someone else. Not allowing yourself to be defined by past mistakes, past events.”

“They’ll never forgive me,” Eret says quietly.

“Maybe not. Is that going to stop you from doing good?”

They continue on as the day fades away, words drying up along with the sinking of the sun. 

It is quiet, until the dog starts barking, sudden and loud amidst the relative calm of the forest.

“What?” Puffy asks, as if the dog could understand and respond.

It rushes forward, through the trees.

Puffy races after it, Eret following along close behind, branches flying in their faces unnoticed as the dog darts through the undergrowth.

They come to a clearing at the base of a mountain. The dog paws at the dirt that sticks to the rocky base, clumps of it falling to the ground.

Puffy turns to Eret. He has gone strikingly pale, contrasting sharply with the dark night around them.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

He turns his head slowly, as if in a trance, to face her.

“I know where we are,” he says.

“Do you think Tommy would be here?”

The dog has torn a hole in the dirt. Puffy approaches it, noticing the hole and that it looks in on a room carved into the side of the mountain. Chests, a few furnaces, a bed.

Eret comes up behind her and nods.

“Yes,” he says. “I do think Tommy would be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok confession time i don't know if the word grey is spelled grey or gray and I've been spelling it grey but I have a sneaking suspicion it's actually spelled gray and now I feel like I look stupid but I'm not going to go through and correct all of that. i use the word grey a lot in this fic I've just realized.
> 
> i just looked it up wait it's both ok we're good nevermind. 
> 
> idk why I always decide to post really late my time I feel like I'm slowly losing my mind and the stupid Grammarly thing i installed keeps capitalizing my stuff even though i want it all lower case so i seem cool what the hell!!!!!!!!!!! i feel like the number of exclamation points i put in these notes is an indication of how well I'm doing omg it just capitalized my I AGAIN bruhhhhh
> 
> anyways thank you for reading!!!!! <3333 i am excited about the next few chapters but when am i not excited about this fic. i am going to sleep now.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy vibes in Pogtopia and Dream vibes elsewhere. By vibing I mean they are actually not vibing at all :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is not the long chapter i alluded to in the last chapter notes lol that's the next one but we got Tommy and Dream further characterization and motivation and all that good stuff. enjoy!!!! comments are always appreciated.

In the side of the mountain, below the small room with the bed and the chests and the furnaces, down the winding stone staircase, is Pogtopia. 

The torches are gone now. The ravine is cast in shadow. Dark and eerie, like a tomb left unattended.

But Pogtopia is not empty. It is far from deserted. In its dark passages, along the snaking, shadowed tunnels, are crammed the ghosts, the greying memories of a time not so long ago.

The wind whistling through the caverns is the whispering of apparitions, plotting, scheming, planning a doomed revolution. The drip of water against stone is the footsteps of weary spirits, pacing the halls, wearing the stone beneath their feet. 

The dirt of the potato farm is dry and cracked, the chests scattered around the ravine are covered in dust, the beds, with their scattered blankets left unmade are forever frozen, a memorial to the last night spent here in these caves.

In the dark, in the shadows, Tommy lies at the bottom of the ravine, curled into himself on the cold, wet stone.

He is the same color as the stone itself. Grey, washed out skin, almost transparent looking now, so grey he could be one of the spirits passing through these stone corridors.

He had run here, how long ago he doesn’t know, on instinct alone, the chase and the panic so familiar that his feet had already known the path before him. Worn into the soles of his feet, wired into his pumping legs, the winding, overgrown, invisible path through the trees that always led back to here. 

And stumbling down the spiraling staircase he had collapsed onto the floor, shaking, coughing. 

His whole body had been electrified, energy surging through his limbs, and sinking to the ground, he had found that it continued to course through him, even when the chase was over.

The energy that made his chest feel like it was going to burst, his skull like it was going to crack, too much energy and emotion bursting beneath the skin. He had writhed on the floor, hands finding themselves tangled in his hair, pulling and pulling, as if to pull every last thought, every last image, from his worn and tired mind. 

Like a crashing ocean wave, heavy and oppressive and impossible to fight, he couldn’t stop the debilitating agony that had filled his bloodstream and traveled through every part of his body, feeling like he’d been torn apart, wrenched apart, so painful his screams had echoed through the ravine.

Screaming and screaming, a sound pulled from deep within him, draining every last emotion until he was just a shell, hollow inside.

If the ghosts had heard him they did not show it. He had watched them through his tears as he quieted, chest heaving. 

Tubbo, who runs through the passage, tie loosened, had run past him, eyes fixed on a point he couldn’t see. Techno, sharpening an axe, mouth moving, no words leaving his lips, talking to a person that isn’t there. Niki and Quackity and Fundy who had moved through the caverns, their faces grey, their stares unrecognizing as they had walked past him. And Wilbur, Wilbur, who had paced the ravine, a cigarette glued between his fingers, did not even spare a passing glance.

It is not being alone that is so horrible. Even in exile he’d had Ghostbur. And Dream.

He knows now that alone is not the word to describe the pit in his stomach, the hole in his chest.

Maybe the word is abandoned. Left behind. Forgotten. Hated, despised.

It is that word which had pulled him to the floor, which numbed him as he lowered his head, closed his eyes.

It is fitting, that this is where he should rot away, forgotten like these snaking tunnels, abandoned like this once hope-filled sanctuary. 

He is numb to any hunger, numb to any sleep. His eyes, once a clear blue, fade, greying, as he stares out with an empty gaze.

“You fight. You always fight,” he hears Wilbur say, in a memory of a night when Tommy had still been convinced he could save his brother. “I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know _why_ you do it.”

He hadn’t known the answer either. It had seemed like the fight was all there was. And even though they had always fought for peace, he had feared the day there would be nothing left to fight for. What would peace even feel like?

“It’s all so pointless, isn’t it?” Wilbur whispers to him. It was a night where Wilbur was calm. Tommy learned to know that calm was only the premonition of a coming storm. “It’s all so… tiring.”

He hadn’t known the word then. Tiring. It had felt like he could go and go and if he could only keep going then maybe Wilbur would too. 

“What’s the point of doing anything if you’ve lost all hope?” Tommy had asked.

“Exactly,” Wilbur had replied, smoke pouring from his lips, blooming in the air in front of them. He had looked at Tommy then. The look in his eyes had scared Tommy. 

Hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless. 

It is that same hopelessness that is infused into these walls, that has infected this water, that has poisoned the air. He breathes it in, slowly, reluctantly.

What happens if he stops? What happens if this is it? 

Tubbo hates him. Techno and Phil are gone. The discs are gone. His home is gone. Wilbur is dead.

His heart beats, and it’s a single word that pounds against his chest.

Hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless.

“This server was never good for us, Tommy. They’re better off without us, aren’t they?”

He presses his face against the cold stone.

If he could feel anything more, those words would pierce something deep within him. But he already knows it. He knows.

“I give up,” he whispers, though maybe it’s more of a thought, the words are so quiet they might not have left his lips at all. 

“Then give up,” Wilbur says. “Let go.”

That was always his problem, wasn’t it? Letting go. 

Letting go of L’Manburg. Letting go of the discs. Letting go of friends. Letting go of Wilbur.

It doesn’t seem so hard now. Not in Pogtopia, where everything has already been left behind. He’ll be like one of these unmade beds, one of these empty chests, forever frozen here, in Pogtopia.

He hears voices, coming from above. Ghosts, wandering the halls.

“Wil?” he croaks. 

“What?” Wilbur asks. He sits next to him, legs drawn against his chest. “Fuck you want?"

Tommy closes his eyes.

“Nothing,” he whispers. “Wanted to see you. Miss you.”

“You miss me?” Wilbur asks with a small laugh. “Don’t be stupid Tommy. I tried to kill you.”

Tommy exhales softly.

“You’re such a dick.”

“Yeah, well…” Wilbur drifts off. “What about that Ghostbur guy? You don’t like him?”

“Not you,” Tommy mutters. “He’s not… you.”

“Well I’m gone. Remember?”

Flashes of an explosion, of racing panic, of the repeated question:

_Where’s Wilbur?_

“You’re here,” Tommy says.

“No, I’m not,” Wilbur says. “You’re seeing things.”

“I don’t want to be seeing things,” Tommy says, tears in his eyes. “I want you.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

"Just stay."

“I can’t.”

"Why?"

"I'm not real, Tommy."

“If I die, can I see you again?”

“You’re seeing me right now.”

“The real you.”

The voices are getting louder.

Wilbur doesn’t respond.

“Just stay,” Tommy whispers. “Just stay.”

And even though he hates this Wilbur for the hopelessness he has pounded into his heart, he needs him to stay. 

He opens his eyes again, vision blurred by unshed tears, and Wilbur is gone.

…

Dream sits on Eret’s golden throne, slouched against the cold metal.

There is no one in the castle, no one but him. It’s corridors are empty except for the wind which whistles down the winding stone passages.

Dream’s long legs stretch out in front of him, his mask sits at a crooked angle. A bottle hangs loosely in his fist.

The silence sits heavily on his chest. 

He never liked the quiet. There is too much room, too much space in the quiet. His thoughts become louder, become insidious, harsh and biting.

It is why he drinks now, alone, lounging on the golden throne. And even with thoughts slowed and muddled, the doubts, the poisonous words, slink through the fog in his head, circling him endlessly, waiting for him to let his guard down.

He has spent the last few days thinking, spurred on by the embarrassing scene at the prison that he can’t shake. 

It makes him cringe now, remembering the tantrum he’d thrown, remembering everything that Sam had seen of him. 

He lifts the mask, taking another swig of the close to empty bottle.

The drink is bitter and burns his throat, but he thinks that he likes that.

It distracts from the weight on his chest, each painful thud of his heart. 

The throne room is so empty. This castle, so big and grand, is so completely empty, so barren. 

The arches, the carvings in the walls, even this glistening throne are so… ugly. So dead.

He knows it is a weakness, this ache within him. He had tried to tear it out of himself, this burrowing cancer within him. But he couldn’t. Maybe he can’t.

“Dream?”

The word, the singular word, his name, is spoken by a voice that eases the pain in his chest, that sends his heart racing, his stomach fluttering.

“George!” he exclaims, too loud, the word awkward and clumsy on his lips. 

The man stands in the entrance of the castle, the throne room. He looks small, dwarfed by the vaulted ceilings, but he is all Dream can see. He slowly approaches the throne.

Dream straightens, rising to his feet unsteadily.

“You came.”

George shifts, folding his arms across his chest. He glances around.

“Yes,” he says, his eyes finding Dream’s mask again. “You said it was important.”

But George didn’t have to come. He didn’t have to come, he could have ignored the message. He’s here, and Dream’s heart soars at the realization.

He stumbles down the steps of the throne, a wide smile, loose and relaxed, spreading beneath the mask.

“It is important, isn’t it?” George asks, narrowing his eyes as Dream approaches him.

“Yeah, it is, it is,” Dream says. His tongue feels thick, and maybe it isn’t just the alcohol that makes him feel this way.

George looks him up and down.

“You’re drunk,” he says.

“No, I’m… I’m not drunk,” Dream says. He forces the words to come out right, to push past the awkward heaviness in his mouth. “I’m not drunk.”

“I smell it, Dream,” George says. “And you’re holding the bottle.”

Dream glances down, at the bottle gripped tightly in his hand. He had forgotten he was still holding it. 

“I’m not doing this,” George says. He turns away, turns to leave, and that sends Dream’s thoughts into a spinning panic.

“No, wait!” he exclaims, reaching out to grab George’s arm.

George pulls away sharply and Dream stumbles forward.

“I do have something important, I do,” he says, correcting his balance, swaying on his feet. “George, please.”

George stops, turning to face Dream again. The breeze plays through his hair, his dark brown eyes shine. 

“I’ve- I’ve been thinking,” Dream says slowly. “I think I made a mistake.”

It takes all his remaining strength, all his remaining resolve, to say. It hurts, like digging an arrow out of his flesh, tearing an open wound wider.

George raises his eyebrows at that.

“Really?”

Dream scoffs.

“Yeah, really. Maybe.”

“What would that be then?”

Dream shakes his head, but that just sends his vision spinning.

“Well, I don’t…” he swallows. “I don’t know about mistake. I- I was always doing what was right, what I needed to do.”

George frowns.

“I’m just… I just want to…” he rushes on, feeling the words pressing against his lips, trying to escape, the words that he wants to say, but can’t bring himself to admit. 

His eyes wander around the throne room, so empty, so barren. He hates this castle. He would raze it to the ground, destroy it stone by stone, erect a new castle, something fitting for a real king.

“I’ll give it back,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“I’ll- I’ll give you back the throne. I’ll let you have it again.”

George stares at him, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes, gone completely still. 

“Eret is gone. I sent him away. It will be easy. I’ll do it for you,” Dream rambles, filling the silence, the horrible silence that George refuses to fill. “I can- I’ll kill him if you want. I can get rid of him forever, and you can have this back.”

That’s where it went wrong, wasn’t it? That’s when it all spiraled out of control, out of Dream’s hands.

“I’ll protect you, George, I’ll build you a new castle, a better one than this, and you can be king of the Dream SMP.”

His chest burns, his shoulders tighten with every second that George doesn’t speak, that he doesn’t move, same blank expression on his face.

“Say something,” Dream says. “Say something.”

George opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

“Why?” he finally asks.

Why? Why? Why?

It is a question he can’t stop asking himself. Why can’t he move on? Why does it hurt, why can’t he leave it all behind, why can’t he just cut it out of himself? Why George?

This is what is wrong with him, he knows. He knows it, and yet he can’t fight it. So maybe if he feeds it, if he allows the weakness this one thing, this one person, maybe it will be enough.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, instead of voicing the thoughts that push against his skull, pounding, throbbing, aching.

George watches him, he watches him with that gaze that makes him feel maskless, like he can see into his head, hear his every thought.

“It’s not what I wanted,” George finally says.

“Yes- yes it is,” Dream says. “Yes it is,” he repeats, harder this time. 

“No,” George says, a firmness, a finality, in his voice. “It’s not.”

The words are hard, a wall between them. 

“I don’t want the throne.”

The words clear the fog in his head. Everything sharpens, comes into focus, the cold night’s air, the bright, shining stars, hanging behind George’s head, the wind that tickles his neck. It all becomes ugly, it all becomes stinging, poisonous.

“I’m giving you the throne, George,” Dream says. “Take it.”

“No.”

That one word sends his heart racing, his thoughts spiraling. 

Dream unsheathes his sword. His hands shake around the hilt, but he levels it at George’s throat anyways, knuckles white.

George just scoffs, his brown eyes turned cold.

“What are you doing Dream?”

“Take it.”

“You can’t force me to be king. What, are you going to kill me?”

“Take it George.”

“No. You can’t control me like you do them.”

“Take it!” he shouts, the words loud and echoing within his own head.

George pushes the sword away from his throat with enough force to knock it away from Dream’s hand. It hits the ground with a clanging sound.

“This,” George says, stepping into the space the sword has left. “This is why.”

Dream draws himself up, but he doesn’t feel the confidence, the strength, he tries to inject back into his posture.

“You still think you can move me around, push me around. Force me into these roles I don’t want to play,” George says. “I don’t care about the politics, I don’t care about any of these wars. I want no part in this meaningless conflict.”

“I’m not forcing you to do anything. I’m trying to help you. I want- I want to give you _power_ George.”

“I didn’t ask for that, did I?”

“You don’t have to ask, I’m giving it to you.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Dream! I don’t want it. I don’t care!”

“Then why did you come here?” Dream asks.

“Because I thought that you would be different. I thought you were going to… change. I can see that’s not happening.”

Dream swallows past the nausea, the ugliness rising in his throat.

“How should I change, then?” he asks. “What do you suggest?”

“Stop going after Tommy. Leave L’Manburg to Tubbo. Take off that mask.”

Dream laughs, though it catches in his throat, a bitter sound. 

“I thought you didn’t care about politics.”

“I don’t. You care too much.”

“No I don’t,” Dream says. 

“You do. You care so much about the wrong things.”

“I am trying to keep this server together! I am trying to unite us! Is that the wrong thing to care about, George?”

“That’s not what you’re trying to do, Dream,” George says. “You’re still trying to live in a time that doesn’t exist anymore. It was fun at the beginning of the server. But things change. They always change, and you can’t control that.”

Dream shakes his head.

“Can’t I?”

“No,” George says. “You can’t.”

Dream backs away from George then, the rising wave of emotion too much, too painful, for him to bear. He doubles over, bile burning at his throat.

He was so stupid to do this. So stupid to think that he could convince George, that he _needed_ George. 

With every shallow breath, something in his chest begins to harden, to freeze. 

He looks up at George, who watches him with that burning disdain, that disdain that makes his skin crawl. 

Anger swells within his chest. A cold wrath. 

Weak. Weak. Weak.

He was weak to give in, to think that this could go any differently.

He lifts his head in time with sudden, blaring sirens. He snaps his head in the direction of the noise.

“What is that?” George asks, turning his head in the same direction.

The alarms wail, harsh and loud, even from this distance. Dream’s breath catches in his throat.

“Dream, what is that?”

He doesn’t answer. He picks his sword up from the ground, swinging it once before pearling away, into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the dnf writes itself folks. i lowkey felt like i was writing a breakup.
> 
> sorry for the longish wait i had a lot of missing assignments for school which is what happens when you prioritize Minecraft roleplay over anything else in your life lol. 
> 
> now i have to write a prison break. which is great to say that it's going to happen but now i gotta write it and if the people on the server don't know how to get people out of the prison idk how I'm gonna do it. we shall see what i come up with.


End file.
